To Touch the Past
by g21lto
Summary: Minerva McGonagall. The toughest witch at Hogwarts lets few people into her thoughts, and fewer into her heart. What happens when one of those very few was the gravest of mistakes? MMSS, MMTR.
1. Prologue: Child

A/N: I tell you, isn't it a great day when you're searching the old ff.net for a romance story about Voldemort and Professor McGonagall and you find that some poor deluded soul out there has actually written one?  Several I've seen…I'm not the only one!  MM/TR forever!…  

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I am not J.K. Rowling, though I would love to have the job.  Therefore, please do not sue me, because I am explicity stating right here (see? Right here!) that I do not own any of the characters contained in this fic.  And, Ms. Rowling, if there is any chance you need to hire someone to be you for a day…?  Consider me!! 

Prologue: 1992

There is a river called time, somewhere—it is always flowing and never stops.  Always flowing, and its waters move everywhere—the universe is an ocean and time is a current.  Never flowing backward.  A boundary current.  

There is a river called time, somewhere—drops from this ocean river mingle and flow, break in waves upon distant shores and find themselves in faraway places.  And they know they will never go back, because time is always moving forwards. 

There is a drop of water called a child.  A girl-child.  The child knows who she is in the river of droplets.  She knows where the river has taken her.  She knows she cannot go back.  

But there is something that the child does not know.  The river called time is an ocean current, an eastern boundary now, perhaps.  

Currents are not linear.  

The child's river called time is a world-spanning gyre.  

And now the child begins to understand this, begins to see that perhaps her past and present and future are more complicated than a line.  The child's river is in an eddy now and that eddy's core is the name "Tom Riddle."

* * *

Minerva had never had to do this before.  She had never had a man and woman sitting in her office, the woman crying into her handkerchief, the man embracing his wife with one arm and looking imploringly, half-angrily, at her from the other side of his face.  She had never had to tell the parents of one of her students that their child was dead.  

_Dead.  _But Ginny Weasley, no matter how many times Molly sobbed, no matter how many times Arthur demanded whether they were sure, no matter how many times Minerva recalled the looks on Fred, George, Percy's faces, no matter how many times she remembered Harry's and Ron's bleak expressions and knew they had been in the staff room (probably under an invisibility cloak), but knew to let it slide; no matter how many times Albus, _Albus, who had miraculously shown up just after the Weasleys, lowered his head and pronounced words of comfort that Minerva could not find, no matter how many times Severus appeared at the door, looking guilty, as if being head of Slytherin made him responsible for Slytherin's heir, no matter how many times she wished this day had never dawned, Ginny was, unchangeably, undeniably dead.  Her student._

"How could this happen?" Molly Weasley sobbed, shaking a bit.  "The attacks…we knew…but killing?  Ginny dead?"

"Hogwarts is to be closed at once," Dumbledore assured them gently but firmly.  "We are expending all possible effort in finding the Chamber of Secrets, destroying the beast, and returning…Ginny to your family."  His voice shook slightly, and Minerva McGonagall, herself head of the house known for its bravery, would not have been able to muster the courage to say "her body" to Ginny's parents. 

"The Chamber of Secrets…" Arthur.  "How…a thousand years, Dumbledore…how could it not be found?"

"According to legend, the chamber will open only for the 'heir of Slytherin,' probably a descendant of Salazar.  As of yet we have not determined how this…person…is causing the attacks while eluding capture," Albus told him.  Candidly, which was against Minerva's better judgment, but surely for the best in this case.  The Weasleys had a right to know about the hushed-up secret that haunted the castle and that had caused…the death of their daughter.  

Minerva had to fight to hold her emotions in check.  Going to pieces now, while it would relieve her, would be exactly what the Weasleys didn't need.  

"I can bring Fred, George, Percy, and Ron here to see you whenever you want," Minerva said in a forcedly-steady voice, partly to distract herself.  "If you wish, they may leave with you and we will take care of their luggage—"

A sudden movement from Albus silenced her, and she wondered if this was too much for the grieving parents.  But Albus was not looking at her—he had a faraway expression on his face, and if it was possible, his mouth was just curving up into a faint smile.  What in the world—

Before Minerva could even finish her next thought, the door to her office burst open.  Standing in the hall was a very grimy, very wet, very tired-looking Harry Potter. (What in the world?)  Behind him, Gilderoy Lockhart gazed around the hallway with an even more vacant expression than usual—if that was possible.  Ron Weasley, Potter's partner in crime—and the Weasleys' youngest son—stood in dusty, patched, and frayed robes, and there, behind him, flaming red hair shining faintly in the torchlight, the little figure he held by the hand was—

"_Ginny!_" Mrs. Weasley rushed forward, and Ginny ran to her, and Minerva, overcome with emotion—_how? How?_—gasping for breath—she found herself with tears running down her cheeks.  Ron and Ginny were falling into their parents' arms, Harry was beaming, albeit tiredly, and Albus…was talking quietly to a large red and gold bird—a phoenix, she recognized it as his pet, Fawkes or something or other—that had just lighted on his outstretched arm.  

And then it was explanation time.  Potter—bless his soul, she thought with an unusual surge of sympathy, but he _did_ have to explain things a lot—told a story that stretched back to Halloween, and his words as he spoke on seemed to run together and blend and—

Had she asked him something?  Probably, teacher's habit.  And he spoke on and on and basilisks and wands and phoenixes and broken taps whirled through her mind.  You-Know-Who controlling Ginny?  According to Albus.  Swirling and whirling thoughts while the explanation continued, she hoped Albus was hearing it, because—

"Tom Riddle, he—"

Stop.

Freeze.  

Tom Riddle.  

He'd said it, hadn't he, Potter?  _Riddle's_ diary?  Minerva was now, inexplicably, still.  The nexus of the swirling emotions in the room, the calm eye about which the storm revolved.  Tom Riddle.  

The Weasleys left with Ginny.

"You know, Minerva, I think all this merits a good _feast.  Might I ask you to go and alert the kitchens?" Amazing.  She'd understood every word.  But she would then, wouldn't she?  In the language of her students, it figured.  When she really __needed the emotional swirl, it abandoned her.  She was completely clear-headed now and could fully understand…everything._

"Right.  I'll leave you to deal with Potter and Weasley, shall I?"  She said in the doorway.  He nodded, his eyes twinkling gray behind his spectacles again, but there was a _depth to the look he gave her, one that told her he understood quite well what she had learned today.  And would be open to discussion, later.  _

Ron opened his mouth in horror, and Harry gave her a fearful look.  She left, feeling cruel but slightly satisfied.  Potter had said the name, Potter got the ominous buildup.  Of course there would be no punishment—the boys were likely to go down in school history.  But let him be a bit afraid, the crueler half of her mind argued.  

She hadn't _really_ been betrayed, she reflected as she instructed the house-elfs in the kitchen on the feast to be prepared.  Not in letter.  Most people wouldn't see it as a betrayal at all.  But it was a betrayal in _spirit_, a sort of slap in the face she had never expected.  

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

I am Lord Voldemort. 

* * *

…Good?  Cheesy? (Yes.  I know.)  Worth continuing?  (Too bad—I'm five chapters into this sucker already.)  If it sounds a little weird, it's because I'm experimenting with a new style that I found in a novel a few weeks ago.

In any event, review!  Review!  Por favor!  Muchos gracias si me dejes uno!


	2. Chapter One: Of Summer Storms and Psycho...

A/N: Someone tell me what a gillywater is.  I'd really love to walk into my local diner and order a gillywater and have an actual answer for the blank stare from the waitress.  

A/N: Severus, you jerk!  Leave her alone!  She said no!

A/N: Are you sufficiently intrigued?  Then read on…

Chapter One: 1995

There is a funny thing about time—whenever something unpleasant is coming up in the near future time inevitably speeds up its flow.  Whenever there is something exciting in the future, time slows down to a crawl, a barely perceptible current in the water, like the placid surface of a lake.  And after a momentous event that is followed by quiet stillness, time flows in disquieting eddies, as if the concussion of the big event stirred the waters into a frenzy.  Time goes nowhere, but makes a lot of noise getting there.  Time does not flow, but currents move.   

There is a funny thing about humans.  Whenever time begins to eddy, they wish time would bring them another big event.  Even if it is horrible.  

But they cannot make it come any faster.  

The child must wait for Tom Riddle to make the next move. 

* * *

Minerva's problem was simple—today was but one uneventful day, of an uneventful week, of an uneventful month, of a year that had definitely been one of the most eventful in Minerva McGonagall's life.  To be more specific: a little over a year ago, an escaped mass murderer _after one of her students_ had evaded justice once again and was still at large.  Then had come the fiasco at the Quidditch world cup.  Then the Triwizard Tournament, one of the most stressful years of her career, and—should she say it?  Or was this whole thing just a delaying tactic to saying the thing that had never been _out_ of her conscious thought for the past month—Lord Voldemort had risen again.  Alright, so maybe her problem wasn't quite so simple as she'd tried to tell herself…

And to top it all off, it was raining.   

Not being a poetic-minded person, Minerva didn't try to romanticize the torrent that was pouring down upon Hogsmeade's high street.  She bent her head into the wind, pulling the flaps of her pointed witch's hat down to shield her eyes.  She probably could have cast a large-scale impervious charm on herself which would have made the rain avoid her as if magnetized, but that would have required fishing in her robes for her wand, which would have opened her face up to the gale trying to get in at it.  Hogsmeade hadn't had a summer storm like this for ages…

As her mind was definitely not poetic, she didn't _consciously try to equate the large raindrops to her mood, or the mood that pervaded the entire Hogwarts staff…Still, for the woman who thought "pathetic fallacy" was a good label on more than one level, the storm was a bit symbolic.  _

Minerva was a very scientific-minded person.  Funny, she supposed, for a witch who devoted her life to the study of magic, that most unscientific and illogical of realities.  Still, magic had a rhyme and reason to it—and Minerva's specialty, transfiguration, was mostly straightforward and had set patterns of cause and effect.  Even if she still couldn't properly explain to her Muggle father just how waving a wand and muttering an incantation rearranged the atoms and molecules of a thing to turn it into something else.  She had actually tried to organize a research team on that once, when she was just breaking in the "professor" title, but then Grindelwald's younger brother had shown up for _his piece of the Ministry and the funds had been diverted to defense and the Aurors, though the younger dark wizard had taken only a month to capture and Dumbledore hadn't even bothered to leave Hogwarts.  After the panic Minerva had tried again, but interest soon dried up and she realized that most wizards simply did not care.              _

The atmosphere inside Hogwarts these days was electric.  Not in the good, exciting, summer's-just-begun way that always seemed to set in at this time of the year, but in the tense, stiflingly quiet way the inhabitants were full of dread anticipation until the air fairly crackled with unshed static.  The storm was exactly what they needed, and precisely what they did _not_ need.  The storm meant You-Know-Who had made another move; the too-still atmosphere in the castle school meant the world was still slightly safe.     

Minerva shook her head.  There was no need to become so worked up over it; the whole thing had been an exercise in metaphorical thinking.  This storm was an atmospheric instability over Scotland.  The storm she was thinking of wasn't even physical.  

_This is what happens when you go mixing magic and symbolism._

Through the driving rain, she saw the village pub, the Three Broomsticks, looming up on her right.  She hurried forward, a new speed to her steps, and fairly _yanked open the door of the pub.  As it fell closed behind her, muffling the howl of the wind and the splatter of raindrops, she took off her hat and wiped her face of excess water.  It was warm and dim inside, the room lit by candles along the walls.  As it was summertime, nearly all the guests were residents of Hogsmeade, and it looked as if Madame Rosmerta, the owner of the place, was having a slow business day.  A low murmur of conversation filled the pub, but there couldn't have been more than ten people sitting around the circular tables sipping drinks.  _

"Minerva!" said a warm voice from in front of her, and Minerva looked up to see Rosmerta herself coming toward her, smiling in greeting.  She allowed a faint smile in return.  

"Good afternoon, Rosmerta."

"I haven't seen you in a good while.  Beginning to worry that you weren't coming back!"  Rosmerta guided her to the bar, where Minerva placed her usual order for a small gillywater.      

"Minerva—if you don't mind my saying so—you could use something stronger," said the younger woman, a slight frown of worry on her face.  "Anyone—I know what you're going through…"     

Minerva looked up at her sharply.  Almost no one knew of Lord Voldemort's return to life, as the Ministry hadn't deigned to let the information slip to the press.  Still, Rosmerta lived and worked right next to Hogwarts, the center of the resistance efforts.  And if Minerva knew her fellow faculty members—      

"Tell me Rosmerta," she said, a wry smile forming on her lips, "how often _does_ Hagrid come here?"

Rosmerta laughed softly, seeing the humor in the professor's question.  But she still answered it. 

"Quite often.  But," she said, her eyes filling with concern again, "you're carrying a load, Minerva, all of you are.  Tell you what," she said, eyes growing slightly mischievous.  "I didn't hear gillywater.  I heard rum."  Minerva almost pointed out to Rosmerta that as she owned the Three Broomsticks, she could serve Minerva whatever she wished without getting herself in trouble.             

"That's very kind, Rosmerta, but I would prefer—"       

"Oh, no you don't," said Rosmerta firmly.  She was one of the very few people who would dare talk to Professor McGonagall firmly, and still she rarely did it.  "No you don't, Minerva.  You need a chance to relax.  Now take the rum, sit and chat, and forget all about You-Know-Who for a few hours."           

Minerva wanted to add that that was easier said than done, but Rosmerta was on a roll.             

"Tell you what—" she leaned in closer, and grinned conspiratorially.  "Take it, free of charge."   

"Rosmerta, you don't have to—"          

"It's alright, Minerva, special deal—all Hogwarts faculty members drink free.  Least I can do."  Her eyes hardened.  "Now take the rum."   

Minerva was too tired to argue.  She thanked Rosmerta, took her drink, and turned to look for an empty table.  Rosmerta was right, the faculty were stressed.  And working hard.  The rum and chatting would probably do her better than a quick gillywater before hurrying back to the castle.  Now where—      

"Minerva!"       

She gave an inward groan.  Of course.  They would be here, exactly when she had come, probably for the exact same reasons—         

"Hello, Professor Flitwick," she said professionally, hoping to distance herself.  

No such luck.   

Two minutes later she found herself sitting at a table in the far corner with Flitwick and none other than Severus Snape.  She blinked upon seeing him in a pub, and reflected that he had probably had the same reaction seeing _her here.       _

Flitwick gave a deep sigh upon sitting down, which Minerva wished she could mirror.    

"Dumbledore left again this morning.  Something else in London," he said, saying nothing the other two professors didn't know already.  Minerva found her foot twitching impatiently.      

"Has anyone heard when he'll be back?" Flitwick looked around the small table, his eyes resting especially on Minerva.  She _was_ deputy headmistress, after all.        

"Albus is hoping to be back later today," she replied dutifully.

Flitwick sighed heavily again.  "I don't like having him leave," he said, "though I know it's for the best.  I just can't help thinking what could happen to the castle when he isn't here…"

Minerva's cup of rum concealed her wry half-smile as the irony registered, but she said nothing.  If she knew Severus…

Snape cleared his throat.  "It worries me as well, professor, especially when only half the staff is left to defend it…"  He swilled the liquid around in his cup and stared at it thoughtfully.  Minerva thought he'd overdone it, but apparently the sarcasm didn't register with the Charms professor—

"Goodness!"  Flitwick exclaimed.  "That is true, Severus—hadn't thought—of course…"

"I'm sure Albus would not have left if he thought the school would in any way be in danger—" A sharp kick—yes, a _kick—cut her off in mid-sentence.  _

"However," Severus continued for her, "there really isn't—"

"—any way to be sure," Flitwick finished, downing another large gulp of his drink.  "So, I have a few errands to run in town, I shall see you later," he said, standing up and executing a tiny bow that would have looked ridiculous had he not been four feet tall and in danger of looking ridiculous anyway.  Laughing at a figure that was both four feet tall and bowing grandiosely was almost a crime.

He left out the door hurriedly, as if afraid to let the castle alone for even long enough to have a drink.  Minerva couldn't help but feel relieved—though Severus wasn't known for his conversational skills, Flitwick was (unbeknownst to his students, of course) one of the most absent-minded people Minerva had ever met, and though kind, mostly clueless when it came to picking up on hints.

He would probably not understand her wish to _not talk about the danger surrounding Hogwarts this summer._

Severus cleared his throat softly, cutting into her thoughts.  She looked up and saw him staring down into his drink thoughtfully again, swirling it around inside its cup.  _Fascinated by it, really_, she thought.  People did have their oddities.

"That was really rather uncalled-for," said Minerva in what came out as a more severe tone than she'd meant it to be.

Severus looked up, narrowing his eyes.  "That was really a rather unpleasant conversation, _professor_, and I for one came here in pursuit of leisure."  

They regarded each the other coldly for a moment or two.

"Shall I leave?" he asked.

"No," she said, picking her cup—tankard, really—up again and taking a sip.  "I'm sorry, Severus.  It's really much more pleasant like this."

"I agree," he said, and looked away and out the window, where the rain was falling even harder than before—if that was possible.  

"Bit of a strange time for 'leisure,'" Minerva commented, following his gaze.  "It looks as if everyone waited until it was miserable outside."

"Symbolic, I suppose," Snape replied, and Minerva flinched slightly, having already gone through this line of thought.  Snape gave her a strange look. "Have you ever thought, professor, that perhaps we all have victim complexes?"

No, she hadn't.  

"Explain," she said, interested in spite of herself.  He nodded and looked back at the rain.  

"Well, we all know Voldemort"—Minerva flinched at the name but said nothing—"is risen," Severus continued after a moment.  "But it can't be proven.  I suppose walking here through the storm is a means of showing the world what we're dealing with."

This wasn't quite what Minerva had had in mind when she left for a drink this afternoon, but it was definitely turning into an interesting time.

He noticed her dubious expression. "Or proving it to ourselves," he added in response to the frown that creased her forehead. "Really, professor, it's more likely to be true than not."

"And you're the psychologist?" she asked in what could almost have been a teasing voice, had she not been Professor Minerva McGonagall.

"Potions master," he replied with more than a faint smile.

"I was aware of that.  I fail to see the connection."  

"Well, potions, of course, require an immense amount of knowledge on the human condition.  Not merely the physical body."

"I suppose next you'll be opening up a free clinic in your office."  Her voice had been just a tad too friendly there.  Even for Professor Minerva McGonagall.  

Severus' eyes registered surprise, but he responded in kind.  "Free?  Professor, you overestimate my altruistic tendencies.  I think twenty galleons per session is reasonable."

She was relaxed enough to give a chuckle, and Snape, obviously surprised and pleased with his comedic success, joined her.  

"We probably need a psychologist at the school now," she said offhand, and could have slapped herself.  

Snape went back to considering his rum.  

The silence stretched into an uncomfortable minute, broken only by the soft sloshing sounds of his drink as it splashed around in its container.

"You don't seem that wet, if you don't mind my prying," she said rather lamely.  Anything to relieve the uncomfortable silence.

Was it just her, or did the thin smile he gave her upon looking up have a hint of conspiracy in it?

"Were you aware, Minerva, of the large number of secret passageways in the Hogwarts grounds?"

"I wonder at the sudden change in conversation," she commented dryly.  

He said nothing, but looked back at his rum.  This was getting quite annoying.

"I had heard of passageways," she tried again, "but was never aware of their locations."

Stop.

That last bit wasn't quite true, but no need to mention this to Severus.  

"Well?" Minerva prompted, raising a practiced eyebrow.

"I have often wondered whether the founders four incorporated the passages into their design of the castle, or if they were added by later teachers.  Or perhaps if—"

"Are you going to tell me where the passage is?"

"Passage?"

"Really, Severus, for a 'potions master,' you have terrible evasive tactics."

"'For a potions master'?"

"Aren't you our psychologist?"

Severus considered her, gave his tankard one good swirl.

"I was lying.  I haven't taken one psychology class in my life."  The smile he gave her was definitely too friendly, and Minerva suddenly understood something.

Standing, she returned his smile.  But with a professional air.  "Forgive me, Professor Snape, but I must be leaving.  Good day."

She turned around and was walking back toward the door of the Three Broomsticks before she could see his reaction.  

There was no need.  She knew what it would be, but nothing she was willing to do would change it.

She was out the door and a good few feet back up Hogsmeade's high street before she realized she'd forgotten her hat.

* * *


	3. Chapter Two: Never Hex Innocent Bystande

A/N: Interspersed with a continuance of the pub scene (1995), which I'm sure you could have figured out on your own, but I feel like rambling today.

A/N: Tom+Minerva, sittin' in a little-known, highly secret, halfway-hidden corner of Flourish and Blotts, R-E-A-D-I-N-G.  What a cute couple…

Chapter Two: 1941

In the words of Adriana S. Bones, what in the name of Rowena's silver spectacles did she do now?  Not that spectacles or ancient witches had anything to do with the situation at present, but for once one of Adriana's signature phrases was fitting.            

Even as the thought occurred to her, Minerva saw her own spectacles begin to fog—she must have put her face a little too close to the storefront windowpane.  A brisk wave through the air, and with their replacement on the bridge of her nose, the source of her problem came into focus again.  

He was standing perhaps twenty feet further down the sidewalk, his back to her, deeply engrossed in the wares of a Muggle record shop.  Unbidden, another of Adriana's oft-used phrases came to her mind: _For a Gryffindor, Minerva, you have a striking lack of courage_.  

_That_ one hardly applied to the present situation either, and moreover, it was hypocritical, as Adriana had been talking about approaching boys.  Minerva sighed, surveying her quarry: dark-haired, slightly on the tall side of average, maybe sixteenish…though it was hard to tell from behind.  Large bag of what were probably school books slung over one shoulder.  Obviously a music fan.  Cute?  No way of knowing. 

He was also blocking her entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.  

Muggles couldn't see the shabby-looking wizard's pub, and she couldn't well vanish into mid-air while he was still standing there, relatively undistracted.  There was nothing for it but to wait it out.

Hopefully he had other music shops to go to.

Minerva looked back into her _own storefront window, that of a bookshop.  Muggle, of course, nothing that would interest her immensely.  Still, there was a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ that bore a tag proclaiming it an original printing, and Minerva had to wonder if paper that old could still be so white.  A quick charm would probably tell, but this was Muggle London, and so that was entirely out of the question._

Damned age-restriction laws.  

She looked up again and saw that he was still there—how many times could you survey a ten-foot display of record albums?—and gave an audible sigh.  Back to the books.  

Next to the dubious Jane Austen novel was an age-battered copy of Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_, and Minerva wondered if perhaps the note had been intended for this book.  Her wand hand itched; her wand, safely stowed in her right pocket, began to look more and more appealing.  

She looked up again.  

_Still there._  Leaning casually against the storefront window, not a care in the world.  

What could just a _little bit_ of magic hurt in this situation?  He would never see it, nor anyone else; she'd be gone from the scene soon…

Her wand was whisked up into her right sleeve before Minerva quite knew what she was doing, and her heart thumped suddenly in her throat.  She was going to do it.  She was really going to do it.  She was breaking the law.

Damn age restrictions anyway.  They were totally arbitrary and unaccommodating of different levels of maturity.  

Damn explanations too.

Minerva was careful to hold the wand as close to its tip as possible, so that none of it showed below her sleeve; to tip her arm upward at an angle that didn't make it excessively obvious that she was pointing something at the hapless Muggle down the sidewalk.  She was doing it.  She imagined her friends' reactions: Adriana's halfway-mischievous smile, Paul's fully-approving laugh.  Minerva McGonagall, breaking wizard law.  

"_Diffindo_," she whispered.  Music Boy's large bag split with a satisfying _riiip_, dumping heavy books and other items onto the sidewalk.  He bent down to pick them up, and Minerva couldn't help thinking she had seen him before.

But she was in the door of the Leaky Cauldron and halfway to the backyard entrance to Diagon Alley before he had a chance to turn around and show his face.

* * *

Neither Adriana nor Paul were in Diagon Alley today, which Minerva discovered with a quick duck into Flourish and Blotts—only a catastrophe on the level of an earthquake could tear Minerva's friend Adriana away from her dusty stacks of centuries-old texts, and nothing short of a volcanic blast could tear Paul away from Adriana.  

Minerva shared her best friend's love for books, but the beckoning of cheery sunlight from the bustling street outside was stronger.  Thus she found herself outside now with a large cone of chocolate ice cream, a smiling young Florian Fortescue busting around inside his shop as she ate.  A large and very thick volume of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four_ was open on the table in front of her.

"_Accio_," she whispered in practice. (Her wand was now safely back in its pocket.)  "_Accio. And—" she flipped the page, searching for the complementary Banishing Charm she'd learned about last year._

"_Cierro_," came a voice so close it made her head snap up.  The spellbook clapped to with a loud _thump that made her start, and then stood poised on its spine.  Closed.  The speaker didn't blink at all during this, but continued to look straight at Minerva, a slightly curious expression on his face._

"Don't you recognize me?" he asked as she continued to stare.

"Tom Riddle," she answered at once.  He was a boy from Hogwarts, a rising fourth year like her.  Slytherin house.  Dark hair, slightly long.  Pale skin, as if he lived in the Slytherin dungeons year-round.  Thin.  Slightly to the—

Tom Riddle smiled a little wider, but Minerva's stomach sank.

Slightly to the tall side of average.

"Apparently, I've captured your interest," said Riddle with a friendly eyebrow.  He sat down and Minerva groaned inwardly.

"Say what you came to say, Riddle," she replied coldly, resting a cheekbone on the heel of her hand.

Riddle held the friendly pose for a few more seconds, his dark brown eyes looking squarely into hers.  Minerva wished she could squirm, and found herself wondering what the Slytherin saw when he looked into her face.  Large spectacles, they were the most obvious feature, but behind that, eyes that were, if she stretched the definition, chocolate brown.  She never wore makeup.  Hair back in its usual, utilitarian bun.  But—

The warm and friendly act dissolved as Tom's eyes grew cold.

"We seem to have a situation on our hands," he said, leaning forward and brushing the hair out of his eyes.  It was strange, Minerva reflected even as she flinched inwardly at the thought of the inter-house squabbles this event could touch off.  Strange, the juxtaposition of such a normal gesture with such a cold and intimidating display of anger.

He didn't scare her, though.

"A situation, Riddle?  I wasn't aware."

"It was you who split my bag on the Muggle street." He paused to smirk as she flushed slightly.  "That is, I believe, in direct violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of—"

"I get the picture," she snapped.  "You've come to cash in on some blackmail."  She should have known this would come out badly; Minerva McGonagall couldn't break the rules and get away with it.

"I wouldn't think of it like that," said Riddle cheekily.  "I think of it as keeping your secret for you.  Hello, Florian.  Looks like a busy day, eh?  Could I have a vanilla cone?"

This last bit was directed not at Minerva but at Florian Fortescue, who had come to stand by their table, an expectant look on his face.

Florian clapped a hand on Riddle's shoulder.

"It's about time, boy.  I've been seeing you here for years.  Time to get some meat on your bones."

Minerva raised an eyebrow skeptically when Florian had left.  Facing each other over two cones of ice cream didn't seem like a likely set-up for a Gryff-Slyth meeting.

"You're paying," he informed her, a humorous quirk to one eyebrow.

"Am I?"

"Oh, yes."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Quite."

"Positively?"  Why was she getting into a verbal spar with a Slytherin?

"Absolutely."  And why did he look like he was enjoying himself?

She lowered her voice and pronounced the epithet: "_Slytherin."_

He followed suit. "_Gryffindor."  _

This was getting a little annoying now.

Minerva, sensing Riddle was giving her control of the conversation, stopped talking.  So did he.

They glared at each other for seconds that stretched into a minute. 

"Two sickles," announced Florian Fortescue, reappearing beside their table with a large cone of vanilla ice cream.  Neither student looked at him.  

_I won't_.

_You will,_ his eyes seemed to say.

_I won't._

_You will too._

_Won't.___

_Will too will__ too will too.  _

Still not moving her eyes from Tom Riddle's, Minerva reached into her pocket and felt around for two silver sickles.  She banged the money on the table.  Tom received his ice cream from an uncomfortable-looking Florian Fortescue, who moved back inside as quickly as possible.

The Slytherin took one long, defiant lick from his ice cream.

"Very good.  Thank you," he said.

They lapsed into silence, Riddle occupied by his dessert, and though Minerva's every intuition pointed otherwise, she began to think that maybe this was all he had been after: a free ice cream.

She turned her attention back to her book, which was still standing upended on its spine.  Page 192 held information on the Banishing Charm. She went over it a few times until she was sure she'd learned it off by heart.  Her chocolate cone was just about gone when Riddle spoke again.  

"Do you enjoy studying?"

She paused at the top of a page on color-changing incantations.  "What?"

"Do you enjoy studying?" he asked again.  "I mean, you're sitting here on a gorgeous day reading up on Summoning Charms."

"Color-Changing Incantations," she corrected.  He accepted the hit with a nod.  "And yes, I _do like reading up on our studies."_

"Are you sure you weren't meant for Ravenclaw?"

"Excuse me?"  Though she did have to admit the question was fair enough; she'd asked it of herself plenty of times.

"Or is that too personal?" he guessed, lowering his ice cream cone long enough to look at her.

"It's not personal," Minerva said. "And no, I'm _not sure I wasn't meant for Ravenclaw.  But I guess the Sorting Hat is wiser than a few fourth-year students."_

He closed his eyes as if pained.  "Well," he said, opening them up again and offering no explanation, "you _do have to admit that most of your house-mates don't share your…enthusiasm for the academic."_

She stared at him.  Tom Riddle the Slytherin had just put into words what it had taken her her first two years at Hogwarts to figure out.  

He continued on. "Of course, now you're in with that Ravenclaw fifth-year, aren't you? Adrienne something?"

"Adriana S. Bones," she replied without thinking.  (Had she really added the "S."?)

He laughed.  "I see you sitting at the Ravenclaw table during lunches.  Care to comment?"

"I see you sitting at the Slytherin table during breakfasts.  Care to comment?" said Minerva, aware that she was coming dangerously close to flirting.

Tom Riddle laughed again.  "_Touché._" 

* * *

Snape raised a skeptical eyebrow.  

"I assure you, professor.  Never," said Professor Minerva McGonagall.

* * *

"You seem to know a lot about the founders," Minerva said when Tom had finished explaining the strained relationship between Sytherin and Gryffindor. 

Tom looked up at her and smiled tentatively.  Their ice cream cones were long since eaten, and still they sat.  

"I think it's amazing," he said, "how the feud begun by Godric and Salazar a thousand years ago is still alive today.  Can you imagine what they would think if they were transported magically to 1941?"

"I rather think they'd be ashamed of themselves," said Minerva.  "Generations of Hogwarts students have grown up with these feelings of animosity.  And all because two men in the tenth century had a disagreement."  

"Two _wizards_," Tom corrected.  "And two of the most powerful wizards ever, doing the most important bit of service to the wizarding world probably _anyone's_ done—except perhaps Merlin."

"That doesn't excuse it."

"But it does put it in a less childish light than your characterization."

"It seems awfully childish to me, Tom."

"What did you say?"

"I said it seems awfully—"

"No.  Never mind," he said.  His smile returned.  "I'm surprised _you've never come upon these facts in your research, McGonagall."_

She sighed.  "I've looked.  I've been trying all summer to get my own copy of _Hogwarts: A History_, but no one will mail-order it, and Flourish and Blotts are all out.  There's simply not enough time during the school year to…"

She trailed off to watch him as he abruptly began searching in his (repaired) book bag.  After a second or two, he straightened triumphantly and pulled out a large and very battered leather-bound book.  He banged it down on the table in front of her.

"Tom—this is wonderful!" she exclaimed, beaming as she looked down at the tome.  _Hogwarts: A History was written in gold on the front of the reddish-brown cover.  "May I borrow it?"_

He smiled and pulled his chair over to sit beside her.  

"Let me show you the chapter on Godric Gryffindor…"

* * *

Snape sat back in his seat and swirled his rum around again.  _Slosh.  Slosh.  _

"I fail to understand your sudden interest in this topic, Severus," said Professor Minerva McGonagall as Snape made a noncommittal expression into his drinking cup.

* * *

"Primary source documents?"

"You know, from eyewitnesses," said Tom, looking up from an artist's rendering of the Chamber of Secrets monster and smiling at her.  "All we have in this book is second-hand information—or third, or fourth…"

Minerva rather thought this was wonderful enough, but she had a feeling she knew what Tom was looking for.  She closed _Hogwarts: A History with a firm _thump_ and stood up.  He followed suit.  _

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to take you to a little-known, highly secret, halfway-hidden corner of Flourish and Blotts," replied Minerva, surprised at her own impulsiveness.  Taking a _Slytherin_ to Adriana's haunt…  

"Sounds good," he said with a curious expression.  They gathered their books and set off up the street, Minerva leading the way.  Tom lengthened his gait enough to end up right beside her.

"So what's in this little-known, highly secret, halfway-hidden corner of Flourish and Blotts?"

"It's a highly-guarded Ravenclaw secret," she said.  "Do you like reading old texts and scrolls?"

"How old?"

"Anywhere from the age of Merlin to the first century…B.C."

"_That_ old?  What are they doing in there?"

"Marvin Blotts is a collector," said Minerva, remembering what Adriana had told her.  "He collects old manuscripts wherever he goes, makes copies, and magically preserves the originals.  You can't look at the originals, but he has the copies in a mini-library on the second floor." She paused, thinking. "Merlin was about a century before Hogwarts was founded, probably, but you might get lucky.  Those dates aren't precise."

"Why don't more people know about this place?" Tom asked with interest.

"Oh, Marvin donates the originals and some copies to museums and libraries throughout Britain.  Hogwarts has probably received some.  People aren't being left out."

"It just doesn't seem that Mr. Blotts receives enough credit," Tom said, sounding faintly disturbed.

"Why do you think he and Flourish have been able to retire?"

"Retire?"

"Well, you never see them in the bookshop, do you?  And it's only one bookshop they own.  I hear they both retired years ago but keep up the shop because they love books so much."

"Born Ravenclaws," said Tom with a smile.

"Probably," she agreed.

A few seconds of silence.

"Thank you," Tom said, hesitating slightly. "This—thanks."

"We'll think up a repayment plan later," she said teasingly, pulling open the door to the shop and ushering him inside.

"Repayment?" Tom stopped, raising his eyebrows. "I seem to remember _you_ owing _me_ a favor."

"I bought you ice cream."

"Ice cream and old scrolls: let's call it even."

Minerva considered, looking at Tom's slightly teasing—but not quite enough—face.  She _had broken the law…_

"Fair enough."

He went inside, with Minerva following, and they climbed up the staircase at the back of the shop to the smaller second-floor area.  Minerva led Tom to the isolated nook where Adriana liked to sit hour after hour—when she was here.

She wasn't here now.

That was probably a good thing, Minerva reflected as Tom began to go through a shelf of parchment scrolls arranged in no particular order.  Seeing Minerva lead a Slytherin boy up to her private study-area definitely would _not have been Adriana's cup of tea.  _

But she wouldn't know, and it was no harm done.

"Find anything?" Minerva asked.

"Not yet," Tom answered after a few seconds.  "I'm looking for the key words _Hogwarts, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff…"_

Minerva took out his copy of _Hogwarts: A History and flipped to the section on Rowena Ravenclaw.  (Fascinating witch.)  About twenty minutes later, she heard with half a mind as Tom exclaimed, "Ah-hah!" and began pulling out parchment rolls._

_Fwap__! Minerva looked up from a picture of Rowena's probable physical appearance (very stern) as Tom laid out five rolls of parchment on the small table._

"Ah-hah!" he exclaimed again.

"Did you find something?"  she asked, repositioning her glasses and leaning forward to look at the documents he'd selected.

"I think this was written by someone from the first class of students to graduate from Hogwarts," Tom said in an excited whisper.  "I can't really read it that well, since it's in Old English and little bits of it are Latin.  Could you…"

He trailed off, looking at her guardedly.

"I'll help," she said slowly, wondering at his expression.  His face cleared and he sat down next to her at the table.  

"Thanks, Minerva."  She gave a little start.  He'd used her first name.  "Thanks, Minerva.  Now _here—"_

And they got started.

* * *

"Well, professor?" Snape raised his tankard.

Professor Minerva McGonagall raised hers after only a moment's slight hesitation.  

"Bachelors." (What in the world…)

Cups clinked in mid-air.  Minerva swallowed a draft of rum, still wondering how _in the world she'd gotten herself into this situation.  _

"I shall be going now, Severus.  It was nice talking with you."  That was just out of politeness, and she and probably he knew it.

"I shall see you at the school, Minerva."  Snape inclined his head in an almost-bow and turned his attention back to his swirling rum.  

Professor Minerva McGonagall picked up her hat and fairly ran for the door.

* * *


	4. Chapter Three: The Only Songfic of the S...

A/N: I want a pet phoenix!  Does anyone know where you can buy one?  How much do they cost?

A/N: A plot appears…definitely dark magic, this.  We'll have to look into this…

Disclaimer: As I am also not Avril Lavigne (refer to first disclaimer at beginning of fic), though I would definitely enjoy the job, I do not own the song "Sk8r Boi."  The punctuation in the song is my own—sorry if it's inaccurate.  It's what looked good to me.

Chapter 3: 1995

There were few, if any, times in Minerva's life to date when she had actively wished to get drunk.

This should not be one of them.

Minerva knew this, knew Severus' advances should not be affecting her this way.  She had communicated a clear "no"…until she'd come back.  And sat with him.  And toasted with him for some reason only Rowena's sainted aunt knew.

Still her mind couldn't escape the thought, _Where__ did this__ come from? Did she really need this on top of everything?_

"On top of everything."  _This_, she knew, was selfish.  She sounded like a teenager.

Ah well.  In any event, one of the better parts of being a teacher was the nearly-constant lesson-planning, even in the summer.  So there were plenty of first-year matches-to-needles lessons to write out in detail.

And—well, why not?  She would listen to the radio too.  What _would_ her students think…

Minerva pulled out the rarely-used magical radio—the only kind that would work at Hogwarts—from a drawer in her desk. A search that lasted only a surprisingly few minutes yielded a station that played classical music.  Elbow-deep in elementary TF and with the radio playing at high volume, she _supposed_ her mind was occupied…

A small creak—like a person treading on a loose floorboard.

Minerva's head snapped up and she searched the hallway outside her office door.  No one.  _Maybe it was nothing, she thought._

* * *

Albus appeared in his office and promptly crossed the room to sit down behind his large desk.  The phoenix Fawkes gave a trill in alarm and flapped down to settle on the surface in front of him—so unnatural, to see a phoenix _flapping!—ruffled feathers giving him the look of a large fluffy pillow.  _

Albus did not notice.

He gave the bird an absentminded stroke, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, reviewing possibilities…

But the only conclusion he came to was, verbatim, what he had thought upon entering the room:

_This is unbelievably _bad.

* * *

_Creak._  

Someone is definitely outside her office.  Someone is definitely standing outside her door, listening, watching her…look at her face and see the proof: brown eyes like woody chips of flint flick up and from side to side in what she thinks is a nonchalant way.  Thin-lipped mouth is pursed a little tighter, a white chalk line drawn across her face.  Her right hand ever so slightly pulls back from her work.

Her wand pocket is heavy as a sack of rocks.  

The whip-thin, tight focus is stretching to its breaking point.  

And its breaking point is sudden hissing, spitting static from the radio.  

Minerva leaps up, knowing the sound has alerted her eavesdropper.  There is no one at the door.  The radio's screeching cat-hiss reaches a crescendo and is gone.

Gone.  Silence.  

And in its place a loud rock guitar begins to play.

She looks out into the hallway one more time, though she tells herself it cannot be true.  It cannot be

* * *

Tom Riddle.

_No,_ thought Minerva.  It was impossible.  He could not have penetrated Hogwarts' defenses.  The only person inside Hogwarts who was in any way connected with him was

—wait.  Nix that idea too.  It was Severus.

She was supposed to be not thinking about Severus.

_What's a girl to do?_ Minerva thought and laughed with self-deprecation: Minerva McGonagall saying "What's a girl to do"?

Adriana would have loved it.

And the radio played on.

* * *

_            He was a boy_

_            She was a girl:_

_            Can I make it any more obvious?_

_            He was a punk_

_            She did ballet:_

_            What more can I say?_

_            He wanted her,_

_            She'd never tell—_

_            But secretly she wanted him as well_

_            But all of her friends_

_            Stuck up their nose_

_            They had a problem with his baggy clothes…_

_MmmHmm__…this is very strange, she thinks, beginning to feel wary._

_I think it's going well,_ he thinks.

            _He was a skater boy_

_            She said "See ya later, boy"_

_            He wasn't good enough for her_

_Oh please, no…_

_Was that a gasp?_

_            She had a pretty face_

_            But her head was up in space_

_            She needed to come back down to Earth…_

Minerva stands, hand over her heart.  She has never heard the song, but she has a feeling, a gut instinct, about where this is going…

Severus listens intently.

            _Five years from now_

_            She sits at home_

_            Feeding the baby; she's all alone_

_            She turns on TV_

_            And guess who she sees—_

_            Skater Boy rockin' up MTV!_

_            She calls up her friends_

_            They already know_

_            And they've all got tickets to see his show_

_            She tags along_

_            And stands in the crowd_

_            —looks up at the man that she turned down…_

It is confirmed.  The world hates her.

_There's no need for melodrama_, she scolds herself automatically.  Well, actually there is.  And now the chorus again…

Severus is feeling pretty good about himself by this time.

            _He was a skater boy_

_            She said "See ya later boy"_

_            He wasn't good enough for her_

_            Now he's a superstar_

_            Slammin' on his guitar_

_            Does your pretty face see what he's worth…_

Ouch.  Minerva flinches, though she knows it came out for the best.  So personal now.  _Does your pretty face…_

* * *

"I love you."

Such a simple phrase.  Minerva pauses, turns to look back at the boy behind her.  The evening sun slanting in the tall hallway windows paints his face in stripes of gold and shadow—oddly fitting for Tom Riddle, she thinks.

"I love you."

He stands looking at her, unsure, as if perhaps he has said something wrong.  Minerva smiles.  

"I love you too, Tom."

He grins.  She grins.  They stand in the hallway together as the not-yet-solid dinner crowd mingles and rumbles in the background.

Minerva can't resist a little dig.  "Slytherin."

"Gryffindor."  Tom smiles sardonically.  "Funny, isn't it?"

"I suppose."

They stand considering each other.  Finally Tom steps forward.  Tentatively, almost shyly, he reaches out a hand toward her.  Cups her face—fingers resting lightly on her cheek.  He carefully, slowly slides his hand down her jawline until he is holding her chin.  He gently tips her chin upward.  And he kisses her on the lips.

Minerva leans into him, the rest of the crowd in the hallway forgotten.  It is not their first kiss, but it is a nice one, and when they break apart Minerva, despite herself, blushes slightly and gives a shy grin.

Tom grins back at her.  "_Gryffindor_."

She laughs out loud.

"Minerva!  Hey, Minerva!"  

"That's Paul," she says, groaning inwardly. 

"As if I didn't know," Tom drawls.

She casts a furtive glance over her shoulder and sees Paul wading toward her through the now-substantial throng outside the Great Hall. 

"I'd better go," she says, turning back to Tom.

"You'd better," he agrees, and pecks her on the cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

* * *

Tom pulls her to him.  She stiffens, but relaxes forcibly and accepts the gesture.

He can't understand it.  She sees this now.  She loves him—she thinks she does—but there are so many things _wrong now.  She pulls back, holds him at arm's length._

"Tom—"

"Save it."  He pulls away angrily; Minerva feels her heart wrenched.  "Save it.  I think I know what this is about.  Let's run down the list, shall we?"  He whirls around to face her, his black school robes billowing behind him.  Minerva cannot help thinking he looks like a vampire…

He is speaking now, counting off on his fingers.  "Grindelwald.  The attacks on those Muggle-born Hufflepuffs.  Oh—and let's never forget—"

"Tom, I love you, but these things are happening—"

"Let's never forget," he continues, glaring at her, "that little Tom is a _Slytherin_."

Silence hangs in the air for a moment.

Why should that have anything to do with anything?  But it does.  And now more than ever.  

"You can't ignore the contributions of your house…" she begins lamely, and trails off, toying with her prefect's badge.

"So the fact that I'm a Slytherin and that there are attacks happening at the school means that you cannot bring yourself to touch me."

"No.  Tom, you understand this!  We both looked in _Hogwarts: A History, we _both_ know there's a good chance this has something to do with Salazar's—"_

"Do you think I'm the heir of Slytherin?" Tom asks her abruptly, his dark eyes glaring from a pale face beneath black hair.  Moonlight from the window paints his face white as snow, his eyes and hair merely shadows over marble.  

"No," says Minerva. "Don't be ridiculous.  But you can't deny—"

"Then _why_"—he leans forward—"don't you know Tom Marvolo Riddle these days?"

She is silent.

"I understand," he says sneeringly.  "Bad politics.  For a Gryffindor to be seen with a _Slytherin—"_

"Tom, don't be a hypocrite!" she shouts, heatedly now. "We had this discussion at the beginning of fourth year!  We _neither_ of us want our housemates knowing, you _yourself_ suggested this room as a meeting spot!" She jumps to her feet, gesturing wildly around the small area.  One small window overlooking the lake from inside the rock of the cliff spills silver moonlight on the scene.  It is well past midnight.

"We _both _agreed upon this," she continues in a harsh whisper. 

"We never agreed to stop meeting," he answers, voice equally low and hissing.  "We never agreed to be disgusted by each other."

Minerva jumps back, nearly physically hurt.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, anger snuffed.  Does he really think that?

His shadowed face turns up in a sardonic smile.  "Apology accepted."  He looks down, indicates at something on the floor.  "But we can never forget this, can we?"

"No," she agrees, coming to stand beside him.  "Tom, I'm sorry…"

* * *

No moonlight tonight, only starshine.  They are curled together on the small sofa, lost in thoughts as varied as the surface of the lake in a stiff breeze.  For there _is a stiff breeze.  But it is not tangible.  _

Well, part of it is.

"Is this where Paul hit you?"  She touches a spot on his back, right above the shoulder blade.  He winces.

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I said, 'well, it's certainly a shame the heir of Slytherin is only going after the mudbloods' and he punched me from behind.  Hit me in the face, too," he adds helpfully.

"That was a hateful thing to say," Minerva scolds.  But she leans forward and kisses the shoulder blade lightly.  "I thought you'd stopped using that word."

"Paul isn't even Muggle-born."

"But _I_ am," she says.  "He was defending me."  She turns his head around so that he is looking into her eyes.  "And I'm offended."

He looks into her eyes for a few more seconds.  "I'm sorry," he says finally.  A shadow crosses his face.  "But see, this is what I don't understand.  This is what confuses me about you: I go about my daily life, and circumstances outside my control cause you to despise me.  I use the worst derogatory word for your…blood…possible, and you give me a back massage."

"I haven't given you a back massage."

"No, but you're in the sort of mood that's so rare nowadays, I feel I should take advantage of it while it lasts," he says, giving her a rare playful grin.

She meets his eyes solemnly.  "Very well."  Her hands begin to massage his shoulders, and he relaxes back into her.  He has a point—why _does she do this?  Push him away and pull him back.  She loves him, though he offends her._

"I feel sorry for you," she says, feeling an explanation is necessary. "After what Paul did to you, deservedly or not."

"Maybe I should get myself killed more often."  Did that come from the mouth of Tom Riddle?

"Maybe you should," Minerva says uncomfortably, continuing the massage.

"So _none_ of the teachers you've talked to believe you about the heir of Slytherin?"

"None.  Maybe you should come along with me once, so they don't think I'm just trying to start an inter-house war."

"Have them read _Hogwarts: A History_.  You're in fifth-year, and a prefect, they should believe you already."

They lapse into silence for a few minutes as she kneads.

"Do you believe in the Chamber of Secrets?"

Minerva stops her massaging.  "What?"

"Do you believe the attacks are in connection with the Chamber of Secrets?"  His voice is suddenly so very serious.

She hesitates.  "We can't be sure.  But"—she goes back to kneading his back muscles—"it's the best explanation _I've seen."_

"It's been all mu—Muggle-borns attacked," Tom points out, wincing at a sudden not-quite-painful knead.

"It has," Minerva says.  "And just now, the Gryffindor seventh-year…you'd think a _seventh-year would be able to beat off another student.  The monster theory is starting to look better and better."_

Tom nods, falling into a half-slumber as Minerva works on.

* * *

Severus creeps away, unobserved, for a quiet escape down into the dungeons.  

Minerva shakes her head, still listening to the song…

* * *

Seventh year.  Minerva is Head Girl.  Minerva is at the beginning-of-term feast, leaving her dinner plate to make her way up to Gryffindor Tower for bed.  

Minerva is trying to avoid the Head Boy.

No such luck, Minerva.

"A word with you, McGonagall?" comes a quiet voice to her right as she exits the Great Hall.  She pauses, an inward groan just avoiding her lips.  She turns to see Tom Riddle, Head Boy badge shining on his breast pocket.  

"Riddle."  

He pauses, looking almost hurt.

"What do you have to say?" she asks coldly.

He steps in very close to her, puts his face in hers.  She resists the urge to step back.

"Just this: your little friends have graduated, Minerva."  So they were on a first-name basis again.  "Adriana and Paul are gone.  Do I exist now?"

She stares at him.  He whirls around to leave.

"I think that tells me all I need to know, McGonagall."

"Circumstances came between us, Tom…"

"Congratulations on Head Girl, by the way," he throws back, already heading for the Slytherin dungeons.

She watches him go, tracing a circle with the toe of her shoe.

* * *

"Just never forget this," Tom says, looking at her with a mixture of sadness and anger.  "Never forget this, Minerva."

She steps back, alarmed.  They are standing in the office that will one day be hers, but of course she does not know this in fourth year.  Tom Riddle takes a step toward her.

"Never forget: I'll always be with you."  

She blinks, surprised.

"You may not be with me," he continues, looking at her almost-fondly, "but I will be with you.  Goodbye for now, Minerva."  He turns to stride out the door, his school robes sweeping a full two inches above the floor.

* * *

Minerva shook her head, trying to clear away the whirling memories.  Fourth year…fifth year…Tom…Paul…_Tom_.  Yes, it had all happened.  She hadn't seen through his disguise.  "Do you think I'm the heir of Slytherin?" indeed…

It was her secret shame, known only by Albus and, of course, Tom Riddle himself…wherever he was.  And it could still be inflamed in the _opposite_ direction by a simple song…

But it wasn't Tom Riddle haunting her now, that much she knew.  No, Lord Voldemort did not hang around the offices of schoolteachers to make their radios malfunction.  There was a much closer explanation for this.  And he would know never to do it again…

Minerva strode off for the dungeons.  Her office was on the fifth floor, so when she reached the large spiral staircase at the core of the castle school, she had eight flights to go down.  She took the stairs two at a time.  Never in her life—if her students could see her _now_—

Severus couldn't possibly have known what his little trick would do to her.  Well, she would make sure he _did_ know.  She reached the main floor of the castle, on level with the Great Hall.  Its large wooden doors were closed now, reflecting wan rain-distorted light from the Entrance Hall windows.  Peeves the poltergeist popped up suddenly through the floor and threw a water balloon at her, which she did not have the presence of mind to repel with her wand.  It burst on her shoulder, soaking her black robes with icy water.  After yelling at Peeves unfruitfully for a few minutes (he soon sped off to water-balloon somebody else, hopefully Severus), she continued down the stairs and realized, _I don't remember that scene in the office_.  Minerva stopped.  Fourth-year, by the looks of Riddle in the memory.  Probably the end of the school year by the way they were acting.  

Maybe once she was over her anger she would ask Severus about repressed memories or whatever Muggles called these things.  Then she remembered that Severus had not had one psychology class in his life.

And she was even angrier. 

Reaching the door to Severus' office, she knocked, then opened it immediately without hearing a response.  

"Thank you for knocking," Severus replied with automatic sarcasm, looking up to see who his guest was.  He stopped short when he saw Minerva, sopping wet, standing in front of him with a look that few of her students had lived to tell tales about.

Not really, of course, but it was the story that went around when Severus attended Hogwarts.

"Professor Snape.  Might I ask you what you were—what on Earth you _thought you were doing?"_

Severus was beginning to look worried.  And definitely nonplussed. "Minerva—"

Minerva was shaking with such rage that she didn't think to correct his use of her first name.

"Professor, what made you _dare to—"_

She was cut short—extremely short—in her tirade as Albus Dumbledore suddenly and inexplicably appeared in the doorway.  

He did not walk up.

He simply appeared.

Apparated.

"Good gods," said Snape, standing up in alarm.  Minerva stared, mouth agape with an unshed rant.  There were anti-Apparition charms all over the castle grounds…

"Yes," Albus said, his eyes taking in the argument-scene and making it quite clear that whatever difference they were about to settle would have to wait.

"I have spent," Albus began, looking both of them in the eye (as if they _needed_ extra emphasis on what this meant, Minerva thought), "the past few minutes in my office, trying to ascertain what has happened.  I have no idea just how it has come about, but it appears that one of our defenses is gone."   __

Minerva felt her anger draining away.

"It may be that this is a net loss of magic, or simply…someone…tampering with one spell," said Albus gravely. "I do not know.  Come with me to my office, please."

Minerva obeyed, Apparating quickly—her anger was definitely forgotten now, and in its place a growing fear wormed its way into her mind.  _If Hogwarts is falling…___

Stop.__

If Hogwarts was falling, she knew perfectly well what would happen.  Inevitably, inexorably.  Focus on the present.

Albus cleared his throat.  Severus shifted uncomfortably in his seat beside her, and Minerva tried to control the nervous twitching of her right leg.  

It was happening, and if it happened, all was lost.

* * *


	5. Chapter Four: In Which Severus Gets Even...

A/N: "Not everything about a man could change in fifty years…could it?" (insert Evil Laugh here)

A/N: Severus—I hate you!  Even though I'm writing you!  You evil bastard!

Chapter Four: 1995

When Minerva was a little girl—very little, not even old enough to _know_ about Hogwarts yet—she and her Muggle family had lived in a little house in the countryside.  Well, actually, it was not very far from a large city, but they could not see the city for a wing of the forest that was splayed out to the west of the house, and to the east, it was all pasture to the horizon line.  So they lived out in the country.

 In the summer, thunderstorms would come upon the house quickly, hiding behind the trees of the western forest until they were nearly upon the house.  Minerva vividly remembered the sudden framing of lush green trees by a purple and forbidding sky, the stark forks of lightning as they struck the fields roundabout, the rumble of thunder so close it would shake the little house to its very foundations.  

Whenever a storm of this magnitude came up—and to the little girl's imagination Minerva possessed, nearly _all the storms were of this magnitude—the electricity would go out.  Invariably._

Dad would complain loudly and get on the telephone to give the electricity plant in the city a piece of his mind, Mum would light candles and then declare a "special occasion" dinner to cheer Minerva up after the storm was over, but still, Minerva was terrified whenever the lights went out.  The house became dark, forbidding, defined in shafts of flickering light from Mum's candles and gray storm light from the windows.  

Sometimes the electricity would flicker. On, off.  On, off.

Sometimes the electricity would go off in advance of the storm, giving them a fair ten minutes' warning.

"Yes, Severus," said Professor Minerva McGonagall, "I know what this feels like."

Severus looked at her wonderingly, and went back to examining the items on his classroom desk.

* * *

"The question," Severus said, picking up a digital wristwatch that Dumbledore had brought back with him from London, "is not so much what is happening as it is how Voldemort has managed to enchant the castle."

Minerva gave him a sidewise glance.  She had long held the suspicion that Severus was in fact a double agent for Dumbledore—playing the part of the prodigal Death Eater who had returned home to his Master.  She returned her eyes to her work before Snape could see her questioning gaze.  It was probably for the best if she didn't know.

They worked in silence for the next few minutes, Minerva with her Dark detectors, Severus with his Muggle technology.  

"It seems inconceivable that he would be able to sneak inside—especially now that the tunnels are blocked."

"The tunnels we know about," Minerva pointed out.  More for conversation than for any other reason.  It had been one week since Albus had discovered the anti-Apparition spells were gone.  Six days since they had discovered that the spells were back in place.  Two since they had discovered the spells gone again.

Three hours since they had discovered the spells back in place.  For all the terror these magical flickerings inspired, Minerva was beginning to find them a bit annoying.  Severus would probably have a psychological pronouncement to make on that if she voiced it out loud; she kept it, wisely, to herself.  

And they worked.  Albus had given them the rather nebulous goal of being able to ascertain when the spells—and _which_ spells—on the castle were present and absent.  The only way to test anti-Apparition charms, of course, was to attempt to Apparate, and hope you didn't end up splinching yourself in the process.  There were, thankfully, practical tests for the other spells guarding the school, and Minerva had a hunch that they might be flickering along with the anti-Apparition defense.

Muggle-technology inhibitors, for instance.  

The rest of the faculty had been called back from summer hiatus as soon as the problem had been spotted, of course, but as the other teachers were spread far and wide on their vacations, Dumbledore still awaited return owls from most.  Flitwick spent most of his time out inspecting various charms on the school gates and the boundary with the Forbidden Forest.  

That left two qualified teachers to see to the rest.

Minerva could barely contain her joy.

Severus had actually been remarkably self-contained in the past week, Minerva reflected, though she sensed tension in him whenever they were working together.  She hazarded another glance up at him—he was hunched over the desk, deeply immersed in the inner workings of an electric torch.  He turned the open body-cylinder upside down over the work surface, watching as two large batteries fell out with respective _thunks.  Now he held the lightbulb, a frown of concentration creasing his forehead.  Minerva had to hold in a chuckle—Severus was not Muggle-born, she had known this; but somehow she couldn't believe he hadn't run by such simple technology as this during his time in school.  He'd certainly gotten into everything _else_ imaginable…He had been, in his own way, worse than James Potter's posse…_

But always a good student.  Enthusiastic—you didn't find that often in Transfiguration, easily the hardest of Hogwarts' core subjects and the class most people simply tried to pass and be done with.  She had always secretly favored Severus over most of the rest of his classmates…

And he'd fallen to the Death Eaters.

Minerva went back to her own work, that of fixing up several small sneakoscopes for placement by each of the Muggle artifacts.  It was dull work, really, but necessary and time-filling.

"It's a shame Alastor declined," Severus said, the only break in silence for several minutes.

Minerva nodded, using her wand to adjust the range to maximum on her last sneakoscope.  "You really can't blame the poor man, though.  He's been through hell…and back."

"Several times, I would think, with his life."

"All the same, I know what you mean," Minerva continued. "I would feel much safer if Alastor Moody were present.  He has so much experience with the Dark wizards, being an Auror…"

She trailed off.  Minerva McGonagall took pride in the fact that she never prattled on beyond the limits of necessity…normally.  

Severus took up the line of conversation.  "Dumbledore remains.  The castle is safe—as safe as it could ever be—as long as Professor Dumbledore remains."

Minerva did not respond—no response was really necessary.  They lapsed into silence, she and Severus finishing inspecting the last few Muggle artifacts and finding them in good working order.  Except that they could not work because of Hogwarts' magic.

Usually.  

Now all that remained of this phase in the plan was to coordinate the sneakoscopes together—a sort of network, centered on the one large specimen that Minerva held in front of her now.  This venerable Dark detector was larger than a fishbowl, and Minerva fervently hoped she would never be around it when it lit up.  

Severus cleared his throat.  Minerva glanced up at him again.

"It is," he said, checking his wristwatch, "time for noon meal.  I believe the rest"—he indicated, with a sweeping gesture, the desk surface strewn with their various projects—"can be saved for this afternoon?"

Minerva narrowly avoided an outward groan.  Now he was suggesting a joint lunch.  And she was stuck—it would look silly, not to mention unprofessional, to decline now, and she and he both knew it.  Damn him, anyway.

"I was beginning to get a bit hungry myself," she answered in a voice that wasn't too fake in its friendliness—or too personal.  She smiled. "Shall we?"

They left the dungeon workroom, Severus taking extra care to lock his door as they exited.

* * *

Days came, and went, without any special occurrences.  July faded imperceptibly into August, which beat down upon the castle grounds with an intensity rivaled only by the faculty's own concentration on the problem of the defense charms.  By and by the rest of the teachers trickled in, by train or broom or Apparition—though not so much now; the flickerings (or blackouts, as the faculty had taken to calling them) seemed to be getting further between and shorter.  Albus came, and went, and always brought news—Fudge had done this, Fudge had said this at such and such function, the Head Auror had declined to comment…it appeared that perhaps Fudge was, after all, doing something quietly to build up the magical world's defenses against Voldemort.

Maybe.  

As Hagrid had said—rather loudly, having had a third glass of wine—over dinner one day when Albus was gone, "Fudge—don't trust 'im, never have, never will.  He's the kin' that'd put an innocent man in jail rather 'an fin' the real culprit—what'll 'e do now there's a _real villain runnin' around?"_

A sober—for most—silence had followed this speech, broken by uncomfortable rustlings of fabric and clinks of metal silverware on china.  Hagrid pushed back from the high table and stood to leave, perhaps sensing he'd spoken beyond the normal bounds of politeness.  Minerva had continued to sit, poking at her pudding with her fork, contemplating this speech—which had probably, if her experience rang true to life, been accurate.  She had noticed Severus quietly slip out of his chair and follow Hagrid from the Great Hall.  They worked together every day after that, but Minerva never questioned him, and Severus never mentioned it.

The sneakoscopes weren't working.  Minerva and the other teachers routinely checked the twenty or so Muggle items that were placed around the castle.  Whenever the anti-Apparition charms were gone, the technology did indeed function.  But the maximum-range sneakoscopes never detected an untrustworthy presence—whoever was doing this to the school was doing it from the outside.  Or he wasn't untrustworthy, which was unlikely, considering he was opening the school to Dark attacks. 

Or, he had such powerful magic he could shut the sneakoscopes down.  This was a distinct possibility Minerva and Severus had discussed with Albus, who had pointed out that a Dark wizard with power like Voldemort and his Death Eaters would certainly have better things to do inside Hogwarts than turn a few spells on and off.  All three had left the meeting perplexed—even Dumbledore, unless Minerva had misread the expression in those normally twinkling gray eyes.  The very thought of Albus Dumbledore not knowing what to do, not even having the slightest idea of what was happening, was frightening to Minerva. 

It was at this time that details of security trolls began appearing in dark and out-of-the-way corridors.   

_Albus trusted Severus._

In fact, the only time the large fishbowl-sized sneakoscope Minerva had been diligently working on _did light up was after it had been disconnected from its magical network.  Minerva was locking up her office for the evening, ready to take a nice, long, hot bath after a day of both fifth-year OWL prep planning and her watch on the Muggle technology—working _again_; she'd Apparated up to the Astronomy tower just to test it for sure and accidentally appeared in the middle of Professor Sinistra's large, spherical model of the galaxy, with magical stars like pinpoints of light all around her.  She'd extricated herself without much trouble, though she'd taken a fair amount of time to make sure she didn't break anything in the very expensive model.  She Apparated back down to her office and recorded the blackout on her calendar, then Apparated again to inform Albus._

Now it was time to lock up.  Minerva had just inserted the large key into the lock on her office door when she heard soft breathing behind her.  She whirled around immediately and discovered a slightly startled Professor Snape looking at her.  Faint smile on his face.

Damn.

"Good evening, Severus," Minerva said politely, turning the key and placing the extra charm on the door to render it impervious to _alohomora_.  "I trust you are turning in soon?"  Minerva winced as soon as she'd said it, and she could tell Severus had noticed—way too personal there.

"As a matter of fact," Snape began, giving her another faint smile, "I thought you might accompany me to the library.  There is a certain…book I am looking for, and Madam Pince has never heard of it."

A book Madam Pince had never heard of?

"Exactly what book is this?" Minerva began, but was drowned out by a sudden clamor from behind her closed office door.  She quickly undid the charm, unlocked the door with a hurried _alohomora_, and opened it.  The shrill sounds doubled—tripled—in volume and Minerva clamped her hands to her ears.  She saw Severus do the same out of the corner of her eye.  It was the giant sneakoscope which had been sitting on her desk; now it was whirling and giving off shrieks and whistles to wake the dead…(with Peeves and Binns and the other castle ghosts around, that wasn't an idle phrase).  Minerva closed the door and locked it again hurriedly, and began pushing Severus down the hallway. 

"Minerva—what—" he stammered out as soon as they had proper function of their ears back again.  

"It was whistling for you," she hissed back.  "You told me a lie, and the sneakoscope picked up on it—now, Professor Snape, what did you come to ask me?"

"In all truth," he said, looking irritated, "I came to ask you to help me find a certain book."  He looked at her hand, still resting on his shoulder from where she had been pushing him ahead of her.  Minerva quickly removed it.  "I bid you good night, Professor," he said, whirling and storming toward the dungeons.  Gods, if _that_ didn't bring back memories…

A faint sound of whistles and shrieks behind Minerva abruptly quit.

_Albus trusted Severus._

Her private rooms were at the base of Gryffindor Tower, not far from the corridor where the Fat Lady in her portrait presided over the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.  Minerva let herself in, lit the candles along the walls, and drew herself a bath in her tub.  As she sank into the warm, frothy water, Minerva allowed herself to relax.  At last.  A warm bath, flickering candles, faint dusky light coming in the window from the still-gray western horizon, all her work for the day complete…

…the school still in danger…

_Stop it.  Just stop it.  You're doing all you can_, she felt like telling herself, but that was what she told herself twenty times daily, and yet she could not shake this nagging feeling.  Minerva had considered going to Albus with her concerns, but she knew he would say the same things her rational mind told her conscience—there was no way she could have known, fifty years ago…

Add to this her concerns about Severus.

But Dumbledore trusted Severus.  And Minerva should too.

Probably.

Minerva sighed—"on top of everything", eh?  Yes, this was turning out to be mostly accurate.  Hogwarts, Voldemort, Fudge, _Severus…_

One thing she knew, which was alternately repulsive and comforting to her.  That was that, whatever might happen, their enemy was someone she knew.  Very well, in fact.  His strengths.  His weaknesses.  Maybe he'd changed, but not _everything about a man could change in fifty years…could it?  Minerva was probably the best person to have working in the resistance._

In the 'psychology' parts, of course…

She winced.  MmHm.  Right back to _this little turn in the road…_

_What's a girl to do?_  Minerva thought again, this time letting a laugh escape her lips. What, indeed.

* * *

The summer's heat, not yet dissipated by the setting of the sun, keeps her from shivering as she moves from the bath to her bedroom.  Dusk is fading now—it must be horribly late, she thinks as she moves to her bed—and she lies down to what she expects to be dreamless sleep.  The deep blackness of her dresser mirror her last glimpse of the waking world as she is pulled irresistibly under the covers by waves of drowsiness…

Images swim and collide in the brain.  Neurons flash and spark, lighting the darkness and darkening the light.  Dreams come and go, forgotten…

And a face appears.  A child, a boy-child, sixteen, pale, dark hair, face a perfect marble statue under shadows of black hair and blacker eyes.  The marble cracks into a smile.  

Slight.

"Hello, sweet," he whispers again, reaching out a hand to touch

* * *


	6. Chapter Five: Why You Should Never, Ever...

A/N: It's a very fine line between Adriana's sincere oaths and Paul's parodies.  That remark serves no purpose but looking slightly deep while actually being just this side of silly, but I'm writing this late at night and I honestly don't have any good Severus-bashing comments this chapter.  Mostly because this chapter happens almost entirely in 1941.

A/N: Oh, yeah, and if you haven't figured it out already, though I'll put a year heading on every chapter, the story skips around a lot and the year heading only refers to the time when _most of the chapter happened.  You'll usually be able to tell from context clues when the rest happened._

A/N: And I _still_ hate you, Severus, you slightly evil-seeming jerk!

Chapter Five: 1941

OK, so they'd kissed on the Hogwarts Express.  That had been unexpected, but, Minerva had decided, pleasant.  Did that mean they were going to see each other during the school year?

It was over breakfast on the seventh day of classes in the new term—she was sitting next to Adriana at the Ravenclaw table, Paul, her fellow Gryffindor, sitting on Adriana's other side—that Minerva finally came to grips with what this would mean.  Going with a _Slytherin._

"You're quiet today, Minerva," said Paul, leaning in front of Adriana and studiously ignoring her to smile at the Gryffindor fourth-year.  

Minerva swallowed a bite of sausage.  "Er…interesting classes this morning.  Transfiguration, that will be fun, and"—she fumbled for her timetable as Paul made a scoffing sound that said clearly, "I know you're lying."

"I know you're lying," said Paul, "and I know there's something on your mind.  But I'm not going to ask what it is because you're obviously not volunteering the information, and I don't wish to pry."

Minerva stared, perplexed, until Paul gave the side of Adriana's head a significant glare.  Adriana turned another page in the book she had propped against the milk jug and continued eating her sausage with remarkable poise.  

"Isn't that kind of me, Minerva?" Paul continued at Adriana's hair.  Minerva, uncomfortable, stayed silent and looked between her two friends for a few seconds.  

Adriana gave a small, exasperated sigh.  "For Godric's sake, Paul, don't get Minerva mixed up in this."

Paul rolled his eyes and raised the pitch of his voice in imitation: "By Salazar's serpentine tongue, Adriana, she's in fourth year—she can handle herself."

"Don't mix _anyone_ else up in our personal arguments, dearheart"—the endearment was definitely sarcastic, Minerva could tell, which was not a good sign—"and to set the record straight, I have _never sworn by 'Salazar's serpentine tongue'."_

Paul made a face.

"Have I, Minerva?" Adriana turned to her.

"For the sake of Helga's sainted hoe," Paul said, "don't involve her in our personal arguments, Adriana!"

"I do wish you wouldn't trivialize the situation by concocting such silly parodies of me."

"I do wish I could understand half the words that came out of your mouth."

"_I_ understood that," Minerva cut in.

"It's easily decipherable to someone of a normal intelligence level," Adriana agreed.  Paul did not, and expressed his nonagreement by sticking his tongue out at the back of Adriana's head.  Adriana, with her head still turned, must have learned from Minerva's expression what Paul was doing, because she rolled her eyes and turned back to her book with a sigh.  

"What book, Adriana?" Minerva asked, looking for a change in subject.  

"_Ancient Interviews with Merlyn_," Adriana replied, flipping another page to reveal an illustration depicting a young, dark-haired maiden. "It's a collection of texts from wizards who claimed to have met Merlin himself in his tree-prison in the woods."

"Yeah," said Paul, poking a finger at the picture, in which the girl recoiled, looking with distaste at his grubby fingernails, "Damn that Nimue anyway, no?  Those mysterious forest maidens…"

Minerva frowned. "Nimue?"

"Nimue," Adriana said, jumping in before Paul could make another snide comment, "was a young maiden that Merlin became enamored of.  He trusted her and taught her some of his secret magic arts, but she used them to imprison him forever inside an oak in the woods.  You'll learn it this year as a legend in History of Magic," she added, seeing Minerva's lost expression.

Paul laughed.  "All the sordid details.  Love, betrayal, magical imprisonment…"

Adriana grinned. "That's history."

"That's _stupidity_," Paul corrected. "Some strange girl comes up and looks at him fetchingly, so he gives her the knowledge she needs to destroy his life?"

"Stupidity is repeated often," Adriana commented.  She looked at Paul for the first time Minerva had seen this morning, leaned in close to him, and whispered something Minerva couldn't make out into his ear.  Paul's face reddened, but he nodded and smiled at her when she pulled back.  Adriana gave him a good-natured swat on the arm.

"And don't forget it," she said, and went back to her reading.

Minerva made sure she was absorbed in the book before looking over at Paul again and mouthing, _What_ was that about?__

Paul wouldn't give her an answer, but just shook his head with a slight smile on his face.  He turned back to his plate of sausage and eggs, and Minerva could see the subject was closed, at least for the time being.

So Minerva was left to her own devices.  Which, inevitably, meant Tom Riddle.  

Minerva had meant what she had said to Tom in Diagon Alley; she truly believed the feud between Gryffindor and Slytherin houses was a silly remnant of days gone by…Tom claimed no side in the debate, but his actions—well, he was the perfect Slytherin in most senses of the word.  She had gathered early on that he was prejudiced against Muggle-borns like herself.  Normally this would have disgusted her, but the way Tom looked at her (kissed her)…

Did he know?  _Could he know?  Would he have kissed her if he had known that she was a mudblood, the sworn enemy of his founder, the reason for the falling-out in the first place?  But how could he not know, having seen her on the streets…well, she'd seen _him_ on the streets and mistaken him for a Muggle, and he was pureblood (how could he be otherwise and be in Slytherin?), so perhaps he really __hadn't guessed…_

He knew she was in Gryffindor.  That didn't turn him off.  But she was more of a Ravenclaw than a Gryffindor in the first place, he himself had picked up on that…He must have been watching her for some time last year.  She blushed at the thought, flattered.  

"All right.  Put on hold everything I just said about not prying." Minerva looked up to see Paul grinning at her and nudging Adriana.  Her stomach sank.

"What?"

Paul grinned wider. "No, don't try to 'sweet and innocent' your way out of this.  You blushed.  At nothing at all.  What's going on?"

Minerva blushed again in spite of herself.  _Gods,_ don't start the Gryff-girl blushing, now…_She'd been fighting __that trend for three years.  "Well…it's nothing too terribly important, but…"_

Adriana was grinning now too. "Now, Minerva, where's that Gryffindor courage?  If you like him, just say it."

"Who?"  Her heart skipped a beat.

"Whoever it is who's making you blush," Adriana said matter-of-factly.  Minerva relaxed.  Slightly.

"Well…"

"For the sake of Gryffindor's blood-stained banner," Paul said, getting a quick frown from Adriana, "if you can't tell your two best friends…"

Minerva stuffed a lump of eggs in her mouth to keep from grinning in embarrassment.  

"It's someone…" she replied after chewing completely and swallowing the eggs.  Her voice was level now, and she raised her eyes to meet Paul's grin and Adriana's more sober, but interested, face.  She looked away again for a moment, disguising the movement by grabbing her cup of pumpkin juice and taking a drink.  

—in so doing, looking across the Ravenclaw table and toward the Slytherin, where—sure enough—Tom Riddle was sitting on the far side, eating a sausage with a knife and fork and staring contemplatively at the far wall behind her.

"Minerva, that was the lamest dodge I have ever…"

Tom Riddle's eyes shifted, ever so slightly, and he noticed her.  Looking at him.  He grinned and gave a little wave, which Minerva drowned in pumpkin juice—then looked quickly back at Adriana and Paul.

"Don't tell me you were looking at the Slytherin table," Adriana said, and Paul burst out laughing.

Minerva hurriedly shook her head no with the appropriate amount of laughter.  

"Thank Helga," Adriana said in complete seriousness, and Paul made a face at the back of her head.

Yes, this was what going with a Slytherin would mean: flabbergasted stares, if not outright anger, from her friends.  The very idea was ludicrous to them.

Adriana shifted her weight to turn back toward her plate.  "So who is it then?"

Minerva smiled. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait till Slytherin comes back for reconciliation to hear _that one…" she said, as was required of her._

Paul made a joke at Adriana's expense.  Adriana rolled her eyes, pronounced them both hopeless, and went back to reading her book, as was required.  This whole friendship thing was really about roles, Minerva thought, jobs within a group.  She caught Paul's eye again and winked before getting back to her own breakfast, which was growing cold.

Just visible between the pumpkin juice jug and the bread basket, Tom Riddle continued to sit and stare, his plate forgotten, his face content.

* * *

_8:30_: Transfiguration, Prof. Dumbledore; Gryffindor & Slytherin__

Minerva had had her desk claimed for five minutes before anyone else stepped inside the classroom, and when she at last heard a whisper of moving cloth from the doorway, she looked up to see Professor Dumbledore.  She smiled politely as the Transfiguration teacher came inside and laid a stack of books on his desk, and he nodded in return.

Minerva let her eyes wander over the old classroom, the large, ornately paned windows, the high ceiling painted over in sunbeams, motes of dust sparkling in the air as they passed in front of the windows, the smell of chalk from the large blackboard at the front of the room.

"Early today," said Professor Dumbledore, and she looked up to see his gray eyes twinkling.  "As usual.  How was your vacation, Minerva?"

"Very good, Professor.  And yours?"

He smiled.  "Very good as well, though I'm afraid a bit hectic.  I did, however, participate in the creation of a new technique for transfiguring large numbers of individual vampire bats with one spell."

Minerva sat up, interested.  "How?"

"There was a bit of a surprise at the Romanian Society of Transfigurers' annual conference—you know these silly things they expect us professors to attend—"

Minerva laughed, knowing he would have attended the meeting had the Minister for Magic himself forbidden him to go.

"—and it seemed they plopped us down in a village where there were a large number of bats in the hills roundabout.  Well, old Viktor Levski, their Minister for Magic, was just determined to demonstrate his technique for transfiguring inanimate objects into animals, so outside the meeting hall one day he transfigured a large boulder into a dragon—"

"No!" gasped Minerva.

"Yes," Dumbledore said, the twinkle in his eye telling her that no one had been seriously hurt. "So the newly animate rock went roaring for the mountains, where we can only guess it found a suitable cave, for about two hours later we began to hear screaming.  And we discovered, outside, a cloud of thousands of vampire bats, in several large swarms, flapping through the village."

"What did you do?" asked Minerva. "How did you discover the spell?"

"Trial and error, mostly," he said, "and relying on the old, slower techniques.  About a half-hour into the invasion we began to look for shortcuts."

"Could you show me?" Minerva said eagerly.

"I would, Minerva, but I don't see a large cloud of vampire bats handy."  She blinked, disappointed for a moment, but then she saw his expression—twinkling gray eeys, off-angle beard suggesting a half-smile—and she knew he was testing her.  Looking around the room, she bit her lip in concentration, mulling through possibilities…

"The dust motes," she said finally.

"Come again?"

She beckoned him over toward her to look through the shafts of sunlight from the windows.  "The dust motes.  There are thousands of them—they're much smaller than vampire bats, but all you need to do for that is adjust your wrist motion."

"Very good," Dumbledore said, smiling beneath his auburn beard.  Minerva beamed at the praise.  "Very original solution.  Now what should I turn them into?"

"Leaves," she replied, saying the first thing that popped into her head.

He nodded. "Leaves it is, then.  And how do I adjust for that?"

"Hold the image of the leaves in your mind as your perform the spell," she said.

"Exactly—you haven't fallen out of practice over summer holiday.  Now—"  He made the tiniest of wrist motions, pivoting his wand around between his fingers to encircle a good few thousand dust motes, and flicked the wand with his wrist—suddenly, as if appearing from mid-air, a cloud of oak leaves fell to the classroom floor and scattered all about.

"That's amazing," said Minerva.

"It is," said Dumbledore.  "And to think: all because of an unsettled population of Romanian bats!"

She helped Dumbledore tidy the leaves up into one pile in the middle of two rows of desks, and by that time, the rest of the class had started to trickle in.

"Welcome back to the daily grind," Dumbledore said to the students from his desk at the front of the room, eyes twinkling.  "Yes, Mr. Nott, I'm afraid you _do have to face Transfiguration class once again.  Will all of you please take three or four leaves from the pile between the second and third rows?  And we'll begin…"_

Minerva already had her leaves, so she sat at her desk and watched the rest of the Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth-years get settled.  Tom Riddle bent to pick up his and straightened, looking behind him—Minerva, on the fourth row, gave a small smile, which he returned.  He settled himself on the second row in a huddle of Slytherin boys and opened his textbook to the page Dumbledore was now writing on the chalkboard.  Minerva hurriedly followed, and began to review techniques for transfiguring plant life.  

She found, though, that it was hard to keep her mind on her work…

* * *

her chin.

"Tom…"

"Minerva."  Dimly, a part of her wonders whether this is possible.  He has been gone…

"I will always be with you, Minerva."  _He's sixteen._  "Forever."  

_Dear god, he should be as old as me now…_

"Age has no meaning," the marble-and-shadow figure says.  "No meaning but in the realm of the corporeal, and that, sadly enough, is life."

She shakes her head, bewildered. "Tom…"

"Didn't I tell you," he says, smiling, "that I would live forever?"

He leans down close to her face. "And _forever is a long time…my dear."  He leans in to kiss her lips and Minerva bolts awake, shivering in the latent heat of the summer night._

* * *

Herbology wore the day on into lunch, with potions class to round off the afternoon.  Minerva did not see Tom in any of her other classes that day, and would not—if she remembered last year's classes aright—again until Arithmancy next afternoon.  

_Why can't Gryffindor have more classes with the Slytherins?_ she thought, and stopped short.  As she had been walking through a crowded hallway on the way to dinner at the time, this caused a minor pandemonium behind her, and there were a few almost-fell recovery noises.  Minerva muttered a quick apology and hurried into the Great Hall, where she found Paul buttering a dinner roll.  

"Adriana's in the—"

"—library," she finished as she sat down.  "Looking for more books on Merlin?"

"No, actually," said Paul.  "I saw her after double History, and she said something about needing an Arithmantic formula for a test next Friday—" he shrugged. "Bread?"

"Thank you."

And that was the evening.  Minerva had a little homework, which she finished in the library with the aid of the ever-helpful Emeric Switch.  A quiet game of cards with Paul in the Common Room before bedtime.  The School Day Grind continued, same as ever—she _loved it last year, her classes were wonderful this year, and still—it ground on.  _

Until next day's Arithmancy class.

* * *


	7. Chapter Six: Next Day's Arithmancy Class

A/N: It's next day's Arithmancy class…dun dun dun!

A/N: I think this is a shorter chapter.  Oh well.  It's important.  I think we're nearing the end of the obligatory fluffy introduction.  Time to get our hands dirty…(cackles gleefully)

A/N: Severus—I HATE YOU!!! Even if there's no reason in this chapter, DIE!  Tom Riddle, on the other hand, I like you!  Stick around a while!

Chapter Six: 1941 (once again!)

Slowly, fearfully, Minerva lies back against the pillow again and falls, after a short time, into deep slumber.  Her dream for the time being forgotten…

* * *

_1:00_: Arithmancy, Prof. Hypatia; 4th years__

Professor Hypatia, the old Arithmancy witch, was about as compassionate and understanding as a Hungarian Horntail in brooding season.  Still, she wasn't unreasonably wicked: if you kept your head down and did your work and got to class on time, you were safe…most of the time.  But tardies to class were one of her pet peeves.  Which was why, when five minutes into the class period had turned up no Tom Riddle, Minerva began to despair of seeing him that day. 

She'd planned it all out: she'd quietly approach him after Arithmancy class, ask him to walk her to the library or wherever…and

—well, alright, she hadn't planned it _that far, but she'd planned it.  These things were supposed to be better off the cuff, right?  But Tom Riddle wasn't here today.  She briefly wondered if he was sick, but he'd looked perfectly fine this morning…_

Professor Hypatia had them calculating the name-numbers for several randomly-chosen names as a warm-up-to-the-new-term exercise.  This was typical third-year work, so Minerva, who had taken pains not to fall out of practice over the summer, was finished quickly.  Glancing up to the front of the room and finding the professor absorbed in her roll-marking (better safe than sorry, as the adage ran), Minerva put down her quill and opened Tom's copy of _Hogwarts: A History_.  After about ten minutes, Hypatia walked around to check their work and formally began class.  

They were five minutes into a lecture on name-numbers by key word when the classroom door creaked open behind them.  Minerva joined the rest of the class in turning around to look—_no one_ interrupted one of Hypatia's lectures.

It was Tom Riddle.

He closed the door behind him and walked forward among the rows of desks—toward where Professor Hypatia stood at the front of the room, a _very_ disgruntled expression on her face.  About halfway there he looked down and began searching in his bookbag.  He straightened, now at the front of the room, with a note in his hand.  He held it out to Professor Hypatia.

"From Headmaster Dippet."

Minerva held her breath, and imagined she could hear the rest of the class following her.  Hypatia took the note, glanced over it, looked up at Tom (unmoving, eyes on the professor), looked down at the note again, then up at Tom with a very sharp and unpleasant expression.  

"Very well, Mr. Riddle.  Sit.  You'll have to get notes for the beginning of today's lecture from one of your classmates."

Tom sat down in an empty desk, still cool and collected, pausing only to smile at the girl sitting beside him.

Minerva's heart jumped.  Because, wonder of wonders, the only empty desk in the room had been next to _her_.  

Hoping no one had seen the flush in her cheeks, she turned very quickly back to her notes and scribbled down something as Professor Hypatia began to lecture again.  

* * *

Tom was already started down the corridor to the library by the time Minerva made it out of the Arithmancy classroom.  She hurried after him.

"Hey, Tom!"

She half expected him to not turn around, but to her relief he did, pausing long enough for her to fall in step beside him.

"So…" she began and trailed off.  Oh, this was wonderful.  "Off the cuff" and straight into the toilet.

He raised an eyebrow down at her.  Not coldly, nor with any special encouragement.  But friendly and familiar.  Minerva was emboldened.

"Would you…walk me to the library?"

He smiled.  "It looks like I'm doing that already."

"Sure you are.  But officially."

He walked a few more steps, looking like he was considering her words.  Then, suddenly, he spun around, dropping to one knee with a mock flourish.  

"Minerva McGonagall," said Tom Riddle in a voice loud enough that several people in the hallway turned to look, "will you take my arm and allow me to, officially, walk you to the library?"

Had she not been frozen in a state of shock, Minerva might have cursed a hole through the floor and jumped in.  Her cheeks burned, and she felt the eyes of every person in the hallway—it might as well have been the whole school—on her.  Tom continued to gaze up at her, eye contact unbroken, with an expression that had morphed from grandiose to interested.  

Minerva was torn.  If she rejected his offer now, of course, it was like rejecting him outright.  But yet…here…the middle of the hallway…had he really _had_ to do this?

Oh well…all things considered, there was nothing for it.  Minerva braced herself, took a small step forward, intending to lean down and accept quietly—quite suddenly Tom took her outstretched hand and pulled himself to his feet, to where his mouth (he _was quite a bit taller than her) was level with her ear._

_"_That's_ official," he whispered.  He paused slightly.  _"Meet me in the Muggle literature aisle."__

He pulled back, gave her a controlled smile, turned heel and walked swiftly toward the library.  

Minerva quickly surveyed the hallway for anyone who might prove a problem in the gossip department, and found no one.  Apparently, as embarrassing as the performance had been for Minerva, few others had taken notice beyond its beginning.  In fact, the only other Gryffindor she saw was a second-year she'd met only once (lost on his first day of classes his first year, ended up in the dungeons, chased about by the Potions Master's live pet bicorns) named Rubeus.  She tried to control the flush in her cheeks, brushed down her robes, and continued down the hall to the library, not meeting Rubeus the bicorn kid's eyes.  Because he actually was staring at her, and quite closely.  She shook her head and continued on to the library.

To the Muggle Lit. section, to be more precise.  Tom was already there by the time she arrived.  

"Glad you could make it," he said nonchalantly, not looking up from the bookshelf he was searching.  

"How very singular to find you here, Tom," replied Minerva, watching as he continued to search the shelf.  As if he hadn't come to talk to her.

"Yes, isn't it?"  He turned around now, and gave her a genuine smile.  "I was afraid my…performance…in the hallway might have scared you off."

She allowed a sardonic smile.  "It very nearly did.  What were you _doing?  I would gladly have come with you—"_

"No you wouldn't."

Minerva opened her mouth in outrage—

"—well, you would have come, but it wouldn't have been gladly, and we would be here talking just the same, but you would be constantly looking over your shoulder."  He looked up.  "Why?"

He seemed to adore straight talk.  So be it.

"Because you're a Slytherin," Minerva said evenly.  "And the same holds for _you," she began again, seeing that knowing smile on his face.  "Care to be seen with a __Gryffindor?"_

He smiled slightly.  "No."

Minerva was hurt, but she'd said nearly the same thing about _him_, after all.

"We're cowards," said a voice, and Minerva didn't realize until a second or so later that it had been her own.

Tom's eyes shifted slightly, down to the floor, then back up to Minerva's face.  "We are.  So be it.  Did you ever think"—he raised his eyebrows—"that perhaps that Gryffindor courage, that bold chivalry, that thoughtless pursuit of danger—was overrated?"

"I get it," said Minerva.  "You don't like Gryffindor."

His smile became wider.  "Do you?"

"Better than Slytherin."

He rolled his eyes.

"Do you like Slytherin?"

"Better than Gryffindor."

This was getting nowhere.

"So what are you getting at here?" Minerva asked.  "You've already said that you don't want to see me.  What are you playing at with 'meet me in the Muggle Lit. section'?"

"Who said anything about not wanting to see you?"

She paused.  "You."

He shook his head.  "You Gryffindors and your courage."

"Enough with the Gryffindor-bashing," said Minerva testily.  "And what are you getting at?"  If it turned out to be how it sounded…her heart thumped a bit more strongly. "Give it to me straight."

"Straight."  He looked at once more alert. "Here it is straight: I want to date you.  But I don't want any of the other Slytherins to know."  He gave her a challenging look.  "And you?"

Minerva thought of Adriana and Paul yesterday morning at breakfast.

"I like you," she said, looking into his eyes (so dark brown), "but I don't want any of _my_ friends to know."

He nodded, smiled, and the tension was broken.  "Good.  So we're in accordance.  And nobody else _has_ to know, after all; it's just us who are involved."

Minerva shook her head.  "You know, this flies in the face of everything my house stands for." 

Tom grinned again.  "I know.  That's what I was saying: did you ever think that your house could be wrong?

"Think about it: all this talk of bravery…does it really _mean anything?  Seriously now.  Examine your house's stance on bravery and tell me _one _time when there was an actual concrete situation in which to practice it—'be brave, be courageous, blah blah' and all that.  Empty words.  All the former Gryffindor professors—yes, even Dumbledore," he added, seeing the look on her face, "Do they tell you exactly what they mean by it?"  He paused.  "No.  Because _they _don't know what they mean by it.  It's an empty phrase, a cliché."_

Minerva, who felt a need to get _some kind of input into this conversation, said, "Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."  It felt good to say it.  And depending on whether or not Tom had ever studied Shakespeare, he would either think her very scholarly or very good at coming up with aphorisms off the top of her head.  In any event, it felt good to be here, cheerfully bashing Gryffindor with a somewhat kindred spirit._

Maybe she _hadn't_ been meant for Ravenclaw, but she didn't have to like it.  

Tom smiled appreciatively. "So you could call me a coward.  I would be proud to be called that kind of 'coward,' because I'm _smart_.  And I know that all the 'bravery' in the world can't make the impossible possible."  He stepped forward.  "Namely—"

"Acceptance of a Gryff-Slyth love affair," she finished for him.  He looked down in surprise and pleasure.  

They were standing toe-to-toe, face-to-face, nose-to-chin if you really wanted to get particular.  So Minerva, emboldened by the irreverent conversation, raised herself up on her tip-toes to bring them to the same height, and gently touched her lips to his.  He acquiesced willingly, and they stood…

Hearing approaching footsteps, Minerva quickly broke the kiss and turned away to the bookshelf, where she picked up a book at random and began skimming its pages.  She heard Tom do the same behind her.  The heavy footsteps paused, then hurried away in the opposite direction.  Minerva breathed a sigh in relief and turned around to look at Tom again.  

"Excellent," he said, replacing a worn copy of _Tom Sawyer.  _

"We should do this more often; we're quite a good team," said Minerva, glancing down at her copy of _Huckleberry Finn_.  She replaced it next to Tom's book.  

Tom caught her eye.  "I agree."

She grinned.

* * *

There is another funny thing about time: though an ocean, its water droplets change.  Its people transform.  Was Tom Riddle a good child when he kissed Minerva in the library?

Only he can know that.  And the answer does not matter anyhow.  The current moves on.  And the child now, for one, is still a child…

* * *


	8. Chapter Seven: A Farewell To Fluff

A/N: Yay!  The Plot Thickens.  And Darkens.  Oooohh…..

A/N: Time to throw in a timely threat to Harry Potter's life to shake up the MM/SS *relationship*…

Chapter Seven: 1995

September first seemed to come sooner ever year, Minerva reflected.  Tonight the students would arrive on the Hogwarts Express, ready to begin a new school year; tomorrow classes would begin in earnest.  

Today the longest blackout of the summer so far was winding into its fifth day.  

The day was progressing as normal, and the noon hour found Minerva seated between Albus and Severus at the High Table of the Great Hall.  The room had the scrubbed-clean smell it always had right before the start of term.  Minerva imagined she could hear the house elves below in the kitchens scurrying about with the preparations for the beginning-of-term feast.  

Albus kept up a steady flow of conversation around the table, even if it was a bit strained.  And not just in Minerva and Severus' corner, though they contributed (or maybe, Minerva observed, absorbed and trapped) their fair share.  No, it was _Albus who was really setting everyone on edge.  Ever cheerful, his voice overdid it today.  Ever twinkling, today his eyes took on an almost feverish shine.  Everyone noticed to varying degrees.  No one commented._

Over a glass of pumpkin juice, and after a particularly forced joke, Minerva chanced a glance at Severus.  For confirmation, she told herself.  He caught her eye and gazed back seriously.  

Then Albus was asking her if she did believe the summers were over with earlier each year, and she was drawn into the conversation for a  few minutes, and when she looked back at Severus, he was swirling his drink around in its glass again.  Amazing: the one time she _wanted personal interaction with him._

Dumbledore took the chance, during a moment of sustained conversation between Hagrid and Professor Sprout, to lean slightly towards Minerva.  Turning his head, he said in a low voice,

"Professors—I would like to meet with you privately in my office."

Minerva nodded, glanced at Severus (looking up from his glass), and turned back to her food.  This couldn't be good, and these days, "not good" meant

Bee-beep!

Bee-beep!

Bee-beep!

Minerva started at the sudden noise, and saw most of the faculty join her.  Even Albus looked over with barely-masked anxiety as Severus examined the digital watch on his wrist.  After pushing various buttons, he finally succeeded in turning off the alarm.

—yes, this was a good example of "not good"…blackout on the first day of school.  Just in time for the students.

Minerva's hand clenched around her glass.  Far was she from the uncontrolled magic of her childhood—a shattered glass here, a sudden surge burning out a lightbulb there—but in that instant her control was severely tested.  _This was what had Albus worried.  _This_ was what he wanted to talk about.  She should have seen it before, of course._

But she'd been too wrapped up in…

Most of the faculty lingered after lunch was over.  Lesson plans were finished, so there was nothing much to do.  Hagrid left on the hurried justification of checking out the carriages for the students' arrival.  _He'd_ known, of course.  Perhaps Dumbledore had told him, but most likely not: Hagrid counted Harry Potter almost as his own son, and the half-giant was leaving nothing to chance.

If Lord Voldemort was after anything or anyone, it was Harry Potter.  

When Albus had finally excused himself, Severus cleared his throat and gave Minerva a significant look.  Minerva had a half-crazed urge to Apparate directly to Albus' office, but that would have been silly.  And she didn't know if Flitwick, sitting on the opposite side of the table and kicking his feet nervously, could have taken any more stress without self-disintegrating.  Come to think of it, that was a serviceable self-diagnosis as well.  

Severus would be proud.  Had he been trained in psychology, of course.

Minerva shook her head and took one last sip of pumpkin juice.  Then, as if on cue, she and Severus both stood, pushed back from the table, and walked the length of the Great Hall between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables to the huge doorway.  Minerva couldn't help but think that the whole castle seemed too quiet.  

"Professor Dumbledore has learned something new."

Minerva looked up at Severus sharply.  "What is it?"

He shook his head slightly, still looking straight ahead.

"I don't know.  But it looks as if he has learned something new."

Slight pause.  Minerva was acutely aware of the dull _thuds of their footsteps echoed on the stone walls.  The echoes should have been louder.  Or maybe it was just the fresh smell of the castle air that made her feel that the muffled noises should have rung truer.  _

"It is—" 

Minerva looked back at Severus.

"It is—quite—convenient that a 'blackout'—and the longest of the summer, even—should occur just in time for the students' arrival." He glanced back down at her.  "I see you've come to the same thought."  A hint of abashed pride there, which she wondered at.

"I had," she said after a pause, then looked back ahead and continued toward Albus' office at a stronger pace.  

Severus let her pull a few feet ahead, which annoyed her for some reason.  It wasn't a very long walk to the large gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Albus' tower stairwell.  Soon they were standing outside and giving the password ("peanut brittle").  The door opened, expelling an unusually grim-looking Sir Nicholas de Mimsey Porpington and a most usually grim-looking Bloody Baron.  Severus and Minerva nodded politely to the ghosts, who gave imperceptible head-bobs before continuing through the professors to the Entrance Hall.  Severus stepped forward onto the revolving staircase, and Minerva, shaking off the chill, joined him.

Albus was worried, but calm, as he greeted them at his office door.

"Minerva.  Severus.  Please come in."  Minerva followed the younger professor through the doorway, anxiety increasing.  Albus never used her first name.

"First off," Albus said, moving around the other side of his desk, "I must admit a very large mistake.  I told Fudge confidentially about the problems Hogwarts has been experiencing."  He looked between the two of them as Severus drew in a loud breath.

"I'm afraid he is doubtful of whether the school should remain open."

Minerva looked up sharply.  "That's ridiculous.  Last time You—Voldemort came to power, Hogwarts was one of our only sanctuaries."

Severus cleared his throat.  "But what if it is no longer sanctuary?"

Albus nodded.  "That is a real threat.  But I firmly believe that Hogwarts is instrumental in any resistance effort.  However," he pursed his lips underneath his beard and moustache, "we cannot ignore our responsibility to keep our students safe.  I'm sure you have all noticed the peculiar coincidence of a very long blackout with the first night of the school year."

"Do you think Voldemort is planning an attack of some sort?" Severus said without flinching.

Albus looked at Severus significantly.  "We have received no intelligence suggesting that.  However, we must assume the worst to keep our students safe.  Though personally, I have doubts as to whether Voldemort would ever set up an attack this obvious."  He sighed, and looked suddenly very old.

"Several…students…of course, will need close watching."

"You mean Potter," said Minerva.  Albus nodded.

"Do you believe Voldemort could have planned this entire cycle of blackouts to catch Potter unguarded?" Severus asked, skepticism barely masked.

"No," said Albus, giving him a rare warning look.  "But this is definitely an opportunity for him to strike.  And we must never forget that, to all appearances, Voldemort spent all of last school year trying to lure Harry into a trap."

"That _was_ for material gain," Minerva pointed out.  "From what you've told us, Voldemort's power would not be as great without Harry's—without his blood."

"There was also the revenge factor," said Severus.

Albus nodded.  "And _that is why we must keep all eyes peeled.  I will see you two at the feast—until then, thank you for your vigilance."  _

They all stood.  Minerva and Severus filed out of the office, Minerva feeling remarkably like a schoolgirl again—so much so that she observed the old tradition of not speaking until back in the castle proper and away from the Headmaster's tower.

"Hagrid will be taking the first-years across the lake tonight—he can't watch the carriages," she began, looking at Severus. "The carriages are the one weak spot in our evening—no one around to supervise.  I suppose I could see to that."

Severus shook his head.  "Where would you stand so that you could see all of the carriages all of the time?  How would you get to one if it came under attack?  We need a better plan."

"Well, we certainly can't have a teacher in every carriage—we don't have the numbers for that."

"We might only need a teacher in Potter's carriage."

"Harry would see right through that, of course—or if not him, Hermione would.  He'd be afraid.  But it would probably be in his best interests…"

"And who shall volunteer for such a job?"  Severus asked rhetorically.

"Not you—those children would rather spend the night in Hogsmeade than take a carriage to the school with you."  She paused to look up at his face, which was impassive.  "No offense."

"Very little taken.  That _is_ an accurate observation.  We can assume the rest of the faculty knows of the danger to the school already—but we may be the only ones who know to keep Potter in close sight."  He looked back at Minerva.  "Quite a strange way to take on the situation, don't you think?"

"It's only for tonight," she said, annoyed at his tone.  "Albus knows what he's doing.  Tonight is the beginning of the school year—and we're jumpy enough.  He'll tell them after the feast so the students won't notice the tension."

"Oh, he'll tell the students.  He always does."

"Not when Black was around."

"Black"—the slight snarl didn't escape Minerva—"was in all the papers, even the Muggle-born students knew he was loose and dangerous.  Dumbledore told them about the Dementors, after all."

"The Dementors were a matter of student safety.  They were prone to attack—Godric's sword, they nearly killed Harry and Hermione along with Black!"

"I believe they were just about to kiss Potter when I woke up."

"Oh yes—you _were_ there too."

"Oh yes, I can assure you, I was."

An uncomfortable silence ensued as they walked on.  Minerva wasn't quite sure why they were continuing—they didn't really have any place to be at the moment.  She stopped.  

"Professor?" Severus, stopping short a few steps in front of her, looked back in mild surprise. 

"Where are we going?"  she asked, looking around.  They had unconsciously started down toward the dungeons in the lower levels of the castle.  He looked around, then back at her. 

"Nowhere, I fear."

Minerva blinked.

"Well, we'd better get back on the carriage problem," she said briskly, turning around and motioning him to follow her back up to the Entrance Hall.  They went, after a brief conferral, across the grounds to Hagrid's hut.  The half-giant opened the door with a short pause after they knocked.

"Er—hello, professors.  McGonagall, Snape."

Minerva smiled.  "We'd just like to know more about the carriages for tonight, Hagrid—just…to know."  Hagrid's face deflated into a worried look.  

"Come in," he grunted, nearly inaudible.  With a short glance at Severus, Minerva obeyed.  She found herself in a small, homely-looking one-room cabin—surprisingly similar to the kitchen in an old country cottage she'd lived in as a girl.  Bright fireplace (which made the place a bit too hot for early September), rough wooden table, strings of onions and other vegetables hanging from the ceilings.  A soft whining sound from the large arm-chair to her left attested to the presence of Fang, Hagrid's legendary boarhound.  

Severus spoke from her right, startling her.  "I'm sure you know that with the blackout, we must be extra careful in seeing to the safety of the students.  We just need to know if there's any—security—measure that can be applied to the carriages, as they are the only place the students will be unsupervised."

"Er—no, nothin' I know of," Hagrid said, pouring himself a large cup of a rather murky liquid from off the fire that Minerva hoped was tea.  "I—I don' think we have the people to ride all in the carriages, an' the route's so long—we'd really need people all along it."

"Do you think—" Minerva began.

"It's Harry, ain't it?" Hagrid interrupted suddenly.  "Dumbledore thinks You-Know-Who's goin' after Harry, don't he?"

"That is the fear," Minerva said gravely.  "But don't worry, Hagrid," she added, seeing his face.  "I'll be riding to the castle with Harry and his friends."

Hagrid nodded mutely, then tipped back his cup and drank deeply.  Minerva, hearing a small choking sound, turned around to find Fang slobbering happily on Severus' robes and practically laying on top of the potion master's feet.  Biting back amusement, she motioned for them to leave.  

"This means you need to be down at the Hogsmeade station when the Hogwarts Express arrives," Severus said as they strode back up to the castle.  He looked over at her.  "You can Apparate.  I suppose you should tell Potter what's in for him on the carriage ride, unless you think it will upset him too greatly."

They walked in silence for a few moments.

"He's not James, you know," Minerva blurted all of a sudden.

"What do you mean?"  Severus' voice was terse and took her aback.  He'd never spoken to her this way before.

"I mean, the way you treat him—you don't coddle your students and I have no qualms with that, but you absolutely _hate—"_

"I believe that is my own business," Severus said sharply, cutting her off in mid-tirade.  He walked on for a few seconds.  "Though I have to ask why you're suddenly upset _now_ about it.  Potter has attended this school going on five years."

"All right, forget it," said Minerva.  

The sky was a brilliant sapphire blue, as September skies often are, as they walked back to the school.  The castle of Hogwarts stood out against the sky like an ancient monolith, its gray stone both familiar and 

"What do you think will happen tonight?"  

Minerva looked at him and saw, to her surprise, a hint of something Severus had never shown before: uncertainty.  

"You know my guess is as good as yours," said Minerva.

"You lived through the rise of Grindelwald, didn't you?"

"I did, yes," she said.  "And we both lived during the first rise of—"

"Voldemort."

She tried not to flinch.

"I was wondering—what it would be like to be in school during such an event."

"You assume I was school-age during Grindelwald's reign, Severus?"

"I assume you weren't yet grown—" he cut off, looking at her strangely.  "I've heard Professor Dumbledore speak with you about it before," he said.  "It was during your fourth through seventh years."  

"It was indeed," Minerva replied, turning away and looking toward the castle so he couldn't see the flush in her face.

"Well?"

"Yes?"

"What was it like?"

She paused.  "I remember…"

_TomRiddleDumbledoreHogsmeaderaidLondonTomSlytherinsMonsterGrindelwaldattacksSlytherinschismSortingHatHesaSlytherinyoucan'tPaulTomWhy?___

She cleared her throat.  "I remember it was halfway through my fourth year that we first began hearing his name."  She drew her robes more tightly around her in the breeze, and continued.  

"At first it didn't mean anything to us—Grindelwald.  Who was Grindelwald?  He was working around London, and nothing could hurt Hogwarts.  Then a girl—she was in Hufflepuff, I don't remember her name—then her family were killed.  And then—it was serious.  We were all afraid.  It was like some plague.  It spread.  I was in Gryffindor, of course, and Grindelwald had been in Slytherin—the Slytherins were all reviled, of course."

Small snort. "Of course."

She continued.  "That summer it got worse.  You've read the history books—the summer of '42."  She paused again.  "Does the school year of '42 through '43 ring a bell?"  

His forehead creased in a frown.  "I'm afraid not."

She smiled ruefully.  "That was the _first_ opening of the Chamber of Secrets."

He stared at her.

"Do you want to know about it?"

He looked as if he were about to shake his head yes, but he stopped.

"Charles Abbot.  Maria Montanez.  Andrew Lee.  Myrtle—"

"Stop."

"The monster has been killed," she said hurriedly.

"Let's go back to the castle," he said.  They turned and began walking at a quicker pace. 

The castle of Hogwarts stood out against the sky like an ancient monolith, its gray stone both familiar and ominous.


	9. Chapter Eight: So Just What WAS That Mys...

A/N:  Oh, wait, I forgot to write another loathing note to Severus last chapter.  So here goes: Severus!  Stop being stupid!

A/N: So how exactly _does_ he feel about Harry…?

Chapter Eight: 1995

"I loved you, you know," he says.  Pacing.  He turns, quickly.  "And you abandoned me."  He points accusingly.  "You _abandoned me_."

* * *

Why was a cat sneaking down among the carriages?  Now that is an interesting question there.  Why _is a cat sneaking down to snoop among the Hogwarts carriages?  She sniffs around them, examines their doors, as if trying to find out how to get in.  She finds no way.  She stalks off, miffed, to sit in a patch of grass next to them—well out of their path for this evening—and begins to wash her tail unconcernedly.  _

Why was a man sneaking down among the carriages?  Now _that_ is an interesting question too.  Here he is, looking around feverishly, calling a name here and there, nearly frantic.  What is the usually-dignified potions master doing?

Don't ask the cat.  She has already hidden.

* * *

It was all Peeves' fault, really.  Peeves had locked the door, forcing them to Apparate inside instead.  Which demonstrated quite clearly to them that the magic was back on at Hogwarts once again.  Which meant Minerva had to travel _with_ the carriages down to the Hogsmeade station.  Which was something Severus could not allow.  So really, it was all Peeves' fault.

Peeves had nothing to do with it, but he had been the one to prod them on to their discovery, so he was a useful target.  Severus' mind needed targets—it sought them out.  His mind just worked this way, and he knew it worked this way, and he accepted it.  Therefore Peeves was the one to blame. But Minerva had still sneaked out on the sly this evening, so he still had to go out after her.  Which meant Peeves would be getting even more grief from him later this evening.  

The problem with the route from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade was that it passed through the main school gates and through a benign—but thick-brushed—section of the Forbidden Forest.  Minerva would have to walk past this to get down to the station.  Or just ride past it—either could lead to a disaster.  For Severus did not trust this new turning-on of the magic.  It was a hoax, a fake confidence-booster designed to catch them unawares with some tragedy.  

Professor Dumbledore thought so, too.  So did Minerva.  So she'd gone out in it to face possible mortal peril, knowing full well how Severus viewed the matter.  Severus ran among the carriages, looking frantically.  But no one was there.

* * *

After Severus had finally left, Minerva jumped down from the top of the carriage she'd been hiding on.  He should have known he'd never be able to find her.  Cats were adept hiders.  

Unfortunately, they weren't quite as adept at opening carriage doors.  After a few more minutes went by without Severus returning, Minerva transformed back to her human form and tried all the doors, one by one.  Locked.  Rowena only knew how the students opened the doors in Hogsmeade.

Adriana, on the other hand, would be quite proud of her.

If she were here.

Knowing Severus might come back at any time, Minerva transformed herself into the tabby again and hunkered down to wait.  She'd have to follow the carriages on foot, and her cat body was in far better shape than her human body, which unfortunately had not seen much more exercise than the occasional walk to Hogsmeade in many years.  All there was to do now was…wait.  She sat down in a nice little grass-patch and began to bathe again.

The sun was already down, and Minerva had moved from her tail up to her front legs.  She couldn't escape, whenever she was a cat, the ironies of having two different sets of instincts:  as a human, bathing like a cat would have disgusted her, but now it was just natural.

Now much longer could it be?  She paused at the end of one tongue-stroke, looking up to the sky and seeing the first few stars peeping out.  The ceiling of the Great Hall would be magnificent tonight—it was a new moon and only the faint pinpoints would shine in the darkness.

Long shafts of cheery firelight already projected from the castle windows across the lawn.  Any time now, the carriages would have to move out.  Any time now.  They'd have to be late already, wouldn't they?

C-R-R-EAK.

Minerva's triangular ears shot up.  A single cricket that had been chirping off to her right (exactly three meters, between the leaves of a dandelion, her cat brain had discovered earlier) stopped.  Sudden silence fell.

C-R-R-EAK. 

A single carriage lurched forward a few feet, then rolled back.  Minerva stood up and stretched, knowing she'd need to be on the move soon—

All of a sudden the horseless carriages rocketed forward—fast!  They were halfway to the school gates before Minerva could take a single step.  Minerva bounded forward as fast as she could.  The cat was fast—but would it tire?  Minerva estimated the road to Hogsmeade at two kilometers.  There was only on way to find out.

Minerva left the iron gates behind and sprinted in the carriages' wake.  The open lawns shone with muted starlight to her cats' eyes.  The carriages disappeared around a bend in the road ahead, and Minerva kicked up her pace.  She had to get to Hogsmeade before the students boarded.

A sudden breeze rustled the grass in the field around her.

Minerva had a cat's eyes.  She had a cat's ears.  She had a cat's nose—she'd sense anything that was hidden around her.

The woods enveloped her now.  Trees more tame in this section of the Forest allowed the growth of weeds and high brush on the forest floor.  She couldn't see beyond it.  She continued on, beginning to feel frantic.  She was slowing down, she was slowing down, she must catch up!

A sudden rodent-like squeaking brought her pause, and her cat's instincts had her searching the woods to her right.

_What are you doing?_ She scolded herself, and pushed on at an even faster run.

It was ten minutes before she cleared the Forbidden Forest, its trees creaking and moving across the sky like spidery arms above her.  A new wind had picked up from the west, and her sensitive nose detected the scent of coming rain.

There it was: Hogsmeade Station lay ahead of her in a haze of golden light.  Nearly exhausted, she sprinted forward anew.  

The older students had already begun to mill around the horseless carriages, which were waiting patiently.  Breathing a sigh in relief (or as much of a sigh in relief as a winded cat can breathe), Minerva walked into the area of light.

Now to find Harry.  Or Ron, or Hermione: the three came as a unit.  As it turned out, she didn't have long to wait.  After only a few seconds of searching, Minerva heard a rather low, throaty _meow_ and turned to see a bow-legged tabby cat rushing toward her.  She tensed—but the other cat came up and touched its nose to hers—and started purring.  It was obviously a friendly greeting, but Minerva was a bit nonplussed, especially when the other cat flopped down on the ground right next to her as if to rest.  Shaking off the surprise, she was about to leave in search of Harry Potter again when she heard a girl's voice:

"Crookshanks!  Did you find a new friend?"  It was the voice of Hermione Granger—though Minerva had never heard it quite that sugar-sweet before.  The cat (Crookshanks apparently) stood and arced his back in pleasure as Hermione knelt to pet him.  She reached out to scratch Minerva behind the ears—

--then pulled back quickly with a small gasp.

"Professor McGonagall!"

Minerva had demonstrated her Animagus abilities for Hermione's year.

Ron and Harry, looking a little annoyed, appeared behind Hermione after a few seconds.  Ron gave a snort.

"Hermione, you'll have every cat in Scotland following you around soon.  Just whatever you do, don't feed it."

Hermione looked at Minerva helplessly and said, "Ron—this is Professor McGonagall."

That shut Ron up.  Harry apparently recognized her feline form too, by the look on his face, probably from the distinct spectacle-like markings around her eyes.  It was probably time to—

C-R-R-EAK.  

Oh, yes, she knew that sound.

A few carriages began to move forward, but slowly.  Ron and Harry sprinted for an empty one, leaving Hermione to scoop up her cat and follow them, with a hesitant glance back at Minerva.  Minerva sped past her to Harry's and Ron's carriage and leapt inside.

By the time the carriage had started moving slowly forward—the door still open—all three humans and two cats were settled in. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all seemed jumpy to the sharing a car with a teacher—they kept shooting little uncertain glances at each other and at her.

"Wait!  Wait for me!"

Both Minerva's and Crookshanks' ears perked up at the sound.  Ron leaned outside the carriage and pulled in something that seemed quite heavy—and turned out to be Ginny Weasley, face flushed from running.  The momentum of Ron's hauling threw her into a seat next to Harry, whom she looked up at and blushed a deeper scarlet.  She was still breathing heavily from exertion.

Ron pulled the door closed.

"That's it—no more room," he said.  "I think five'll do."

"Five?" Ginny said, frowning and looking around at the three other children.

Minerva stretched luxuriously on the jarring carriage floor, nearly losing her balance.

"Oh," Ginny said, eyes wide.  She'd seen Minerva in her Animagus form as well.  There was no further conversation.  Minerva counted off the minutes in her head: now they had reached the woods, now they were through, in the meadows in front of the school gates.  The carriages were, of course, traveling much more slowly back up to the castle than they had on their breakneck dash down to the station.  There was student safety to consider.

Harry cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably in his seat (away from Ginny).  Hermione glanced over at them, then turned her gaze out the carriage window.  The wind had picked up and now whistled around chinks in the door of the carriage.  Ron shivered a bit and looked around, finally sticking Harry with a "what's going on?" look.  Harry looked self-consciously down at Minerva, then gave a small shrug in reply.  He looked out the carriage window at the meadows.  The moonless starlight cast weak, insubstantial shadows like watered-down milk across the faces of all the children, which seemed to belie the stifling mood of the carriage.

Well, she'd been right about one thing, Minerva reflected wryly.  It was a good thing Severus hadn't had this job, or the four Gryffindor students might have died of the tension.  

Wait.  That wasn't funny.

But it was also fortunate that she'd come, because Severus would have taken up much more room than the carriage could afford, and Ginny, if not Harry, would definitely be sitting on the floor.  Minerva could be a cat and leave enough room for everyone to be comfortable.  Physically.

After far too many minutes of tense listening, Minerva felt the carriage slow underneath her.  The light on Harry's face now was a golden yellow, giving him a far more natural complexion that the washed-out starlight.  Minerva knew they were underneath the castle.  With a lurch, the carriage stopped completely.  Hermione sprang up and opened the door, then held back to let Minerva go through first.  Which she did, but not without competition from Crookshanks.

As soon as she was outside the carriage, Minerva transformed back to human.  Standing (and straightening her rather crumpled hat), she turned to face the four students who had just filed out of the car.

And who looked less than anticipatory.

"Thank you for sharing your car," she said, trying a gracious smile.  Until she remembered that Professor Minerva McGonagall didn't give out gracious smiles.  Ron looked edgewise at Harry, but had the sense not to raise his eyebrows (too far).  Harry shifted uncomfortably and—Minerva nearly gasped—raised a hand to rub at his scar.  Ginny just looked up at her.  With big, brown eyes that reminded Minerva suddenly and unpleasantly of where this young girl had been three years ago…

Minerva cleared her throat.  "Well, hurry up!  You don't want to be late for the Sorting ceremony.  Off you go!"  She watched as they walked up the stairs to the great front doors.  For a second she remained standing beside the carriage.  Was there any need to hurry it?  She didn't care what Severus thought about what she'd done: it had been necessary, it had been for the safety of the students.  It would be nice to avoid a scene, though…except that she was in charge of the Sorting, which would be starting momentarily.  And about which she had totally forgotten.  

It's hard to say whether anything quite matches a person trying to sprint up a flight of stairs _and_ retain their dignity for hilarity.  Minerva certainly hoped so.

She found in the Entrance Hall a large group of very frightened-looking first-years.  _Very_ frightened-looking, in fact, or at least more so than normal.  Catching her breath (and trying again to straighten that hat), Minerva tried to look enough like a teacher to address the group in an authoritative voice.

"Welcome to Hogwarts.  My—name is Professor McGonagall, I am also the Deputy—Headmis—" she broke off finally, seeing their confused expressions.  "Have you—have you already been told about—the Sorting?"  They nodded.  Minerva paused.  "Who—is in charge of it?"

No answer, but several of them looked at her as if they might possibly be being interviewed by an unstable escapee of some type instead of a teacher.

Well, she probably looked the part.  Minerva tried to quell her annoyance.

"Well, speak up.  I actually need to know—I've only just arrived—"

The doors to the Great Hall opened loudly behind her and Minerva turned to see Severus striding out, a _very unpleasant expression on his face.  His eyes were fixed beadily upon her._

Damn it.

"Professor Snape," she said, hoping to keep any arguments out of earshot of large groups of students.  "Are they ready for the first-years?"

Severus nodded wordlessly and thrust a large parchment roll of names at her.  Upon taking it, her fingers brushed against his.  Severus quite suddenly clamped his hand over hers—behind the parchment roll.  For a long second he looked into her eyes with an expression that communicated more than any rebuke, argument, or angry tirade could have.

Minerva broke the handclasp and turned to lead the first-years into the Great Hall.  Severus whirled about and marched in ahead of them, robes blowing in the breeze of his passage.  Minerva followed him with her eyes until he gained the High Table and sat down.  Then she was focused on the list of names.  She gave the usual introduction to the Sorting, placed the Hat on its stool, and stepped back for it to sing.  

For a second, nothing happened.  The entire assembly, and the first-years in particular, leaned forward eagerly.  A small rip appeared in the Hat just above the brim and quickly widened into a mouth.  The Hat began to sing:

            _"Another year, another batch!___

_            Your faces are all new._

_            No looks of fear, my little ones,_

_            But where shall I Sort you?_

_            Shall I give you to Rowena,_

_            That witch of silver and blue?_

_            A lust for learning, cleverness:_

_            Inquiring minds are all her hue._

_            Or in the house of Helga,_

_            With the golden banner o'erhead splayed?_

_            Not one of hers has forsaken a friend_

_            Nor ever from his duty strayed._

_            Or could be for old Salazar_

_            You're of a mind and nature keen:_

_            A cunning one of aspirations_

_            Under the billowing banner green._

_            Or is Godric your true wizard,_

_            Were you for courage in danger bred?_

_            If so, watch out, you'll find aplenty_

_            Of both in the house of gold and bloodred._

_            Now step right up, now put me on!_

_            There's no need for you to fear._

_            I'll Sort you once, I'll Sort you right,_

_            All you must do is come right here!"_

(Loud applause ensued.)

Despite the Hat's reassurances, the first-years looked less than convinced that there was nothing to fear, and Minerva secretly shared their feelings.  She didn't think she'd ever heard quite this morbid a Sorting song.  No matter.  One by one the crowd of first-years dwindled, until finally, her job finished, Minerva Banished the Hat and stool to Albus' office and took her place at the High Table—between Albus and Severus.  Albus greeted her with a grateful smile; Severus said nothing and Minerva tried to not look at him (without being too surreptitious about it).

The Great Hall was beginning to feel right again, full of chatter and movement and warm bodies.  Minerva caught the optimistic upswing in mood at the High Table, but tried to distance herself from it.  Though the cheery, bright candlelight reflected off happy faces all around her, she needed only to look at a certain student at her house's table to sober herself up.  Or come to think of it, she could look beside her.  On the power of internal suggestion, Minerva turned slightly to look at Severus on her right.  He gave her a look of practiced anger and barely-hidden reproach.  There wasn't much to do to that but to give a polite, unaffected smile and turn back forward.  And find something else to look at, quick.

Her eye settled on Harry's group, who had situated themselves in the middle of long Gryffindor Table.  Right now they were all, even little Ginny, leaned forward with heads together discussing something.  She didn't need Ron's glance up towards her at the High Table, and the subsequent dispersal of the committee to regular eating, to know what they were talking about.  Harry took one more look, aimed more toward Severus, a thoughtful expression on his face.  Even from where she was, Minerva could see his face darken before he finally turned back to his plate.

Hearing a gentle sloshing sound, Minerva glanced over and saw Severus swirling his wine-glass again, something he'd never done in front of students before.

Albus leaned over toward Minerva and Severus now.  

"It looks like another rivalrous year—I counted nine new Gryffindors and nine Slytherins," he said.

Minerva gave a polite smile and nod, trying not to let it show that she had been too distracted to keep count.  

"Something tells me, Headmaster," said Severus wryly, "that our houses don't need an equal number of new members to be rivalrous."  

Albus chuckled.  "No, I'd say not, Severus.  Do try the mutton chops, they are excellent this evening."  He turned to Professor Sprout on his left and began talking about this year's new Hufflepuffs.  

The low roar of conversation rose steadily as the evening progressed, with more people finishing their meals.  The Gryffindor Investigatory Committee all had their heads together again and were discussing something earnestly.  Minerva watched with faint amusement as Ginny jumped into the conversation, making large gestures with her hands.  She _had come a long way in three years…_

A faint sloshing was still coming from her right, though it didn't look like any of the students had noticed.  Minerva glanced over at Severus again and caught him looking at her.  For a moment it looked like he would turn away, but then he leaned forward slightly (the sloshing ended).  

"Did you encounter…any difficulties?" Severus asked her.  Mienrva was confused for a moment.  Then she remembered.

"No.  Other than the fact that all the carriage doors were locked," she added flippantly.  His eyes didn't widen, but they somehow became more piercing.

"So—on foot to Hogsmeade."

"Yes."

"A lone woman, walking—"

"A lone witch."  She didn't have to justify herself to Severus; the man was thirty years her junior.  "And a cat, for that matter: better running speed."

Severus said nothing, but turned back quickly to his drink, a slightly sick expression on his face.  Minerva had a fleeting sense of satisfaction.

--good god, he really was thirty years her junior.  She counted the years.  Thirty-one to be exact.

Minerva wasn't conscious of the void of conversation to her left until Albus cleared his throat softly and gave her a significant glance.  He made a faint eyebrow-gesture toward the student tables, which had begun to clear out in small clusters.  

"I have been trying to keep a close eye on Harry Potter all night," he told her, and she began to search the Gryffindor table.  "He's left."  Minerva looked up at him.

"He probably left early to get to his common room before the first-years arrived," Severus said in a low voice.  "There is no need to fear just yet."

Minerva's eyes swept the Gryffindor table once more—yes, Harry had gone.  Hermione remained, and Ron, and Ginny.  The young girl was giggling into her napkin at something or other.  

"All the same, we must know.  Minerva."  Minerva nodded, trying not to widen her eyes.  First name again.  "Minerva, go up to the Gryffindor Common Room and see if you can find him."

She slipped out of her seat and out a side door in the Hall near the High Table.  Outside the Great Hall, the feeling of rightness hadn't spread yet: everything was in place, the air had a fresh, light feel of cleanliness, and everything was muffled.  Her feet as they struck the ground were made of some heavy cloth.  The echoes of her footsteps did not ring true on the stone walls.  She hastened to the staircase, which was filled with a more substantial torchlight than the corridors.  Up five flights, down the hall to the left; a hurried one-word exchange with the Fat Lady, and she was climbing awkwardly through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Mr. Potter?" she called to the un-echoing, plush walls.  "Mr. Potter?  Come along now, you're needed…"

There was no sound in response.

"Mr. Potter?"  Minerva began walking up the stairs at the far end of the room towards the fifth-year boys' dormitory.  

"Harry?" she called out to the empty four-posters.  "_Harry?_"

She shook her head and began down the stairs again.  He might have gone to the library—though the thought of a Gryffindor boy in the library when there was no homework to be done was a bit ludicrous.  

He wasn't in the library either.  

"Harry!" one last call before she returned to the Great Hall empty-handed.  It was met with silence.

Minerva didn't bother with the side entrance on her return, blowing in the main doors and up the aisle between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables.  So it was obvious to her from her first step in the room that Dumbledore had left the High Table.  Severus remained, along with most of the teaching staff.  She walked up to stand across the table from him.

"Severus, he's not in the common room.  I checked the library too. I don't know where else to look—_and where's Dumbledore?_"

Severus to his credit was calm.  "Dumbledore received an urgent call, which he is taking in his office.  He doesn't want to be disturbed."  He gave her a very meaningful look, and she had the feeling that it had something to do with Fudge.  Then his eyes shifted and took on a wry look.  "And really, Professor—you looked in the _library_ for young Potter?"

Minerva was too worried to appreciate any humor at the moment.  

Sometimes things happen because they are meant to happen; they are part of an intricate and grand plan for the universe called fate.  Sometimes things happen because they are made to happen, because some active member of the universe sets elements in motion to serve its own devices.  

And sometimes things just happen, with no apparent reason or explanation.  It's hard to say which reason for happening each event has behind it, until the event is sufficiently removed in time to be viewed with a more critical and distant eye.  But in any event, events _do happen all the time, and they can only be recorded for posterity to reason out._

A single candle in the Great Hall, suspended for years by some spell long-uttered by some person long-forgotten, fell from its position in mid-air to splatter on the Slytherin table with a sizzle of hot wax.

After the candle fell—which Minerva saw happen out of the corner of her eye—she froze.  Severus froze as well, looking into her eyes.  A few isolated shrieks of surprise—mostly from the Slytherin girls—were quickly muffled, and a hesitant laughter filled the Great Hall.  A candle to fall?  Such a thing had never happened.

--it probably hadn't, and to trust such a thing to random chance—

"It was a candle," she hissed to Severus under her breath.  "There's no reason—if anything—he wouldn't spend such time to dislodge a _candle."  _

"Of course not," said Severus, visibly shaken.  "But this is an even larger coincidence than that of today ending a long blackout."  So he was still pursuing this?

"We have to remain calm," Minerva said.  "But we also need to look into the possibility that—well—_something_ is happening here."

"Until the blackouts," said Severus softly.  "I would have said nothing could happen here.  Not with Dumbledore around."  

Minerva could have shared a similar story, but now was time for action.  And action without Professor Dumbledore, too.

"Severus, do you think Harry could be in real danger?"

His lip curled slightly.  "Yes—it's a possibility."

"So do I."  She paused.  "We know he's after Harry.  Harry."

"Minerva, I think we must—"

Minerva was already clanging a spoon against her wine glass for attention—rather more forcefully than usual.  Within a few seconds the roar of conversation had died out as every student in the room turned his or her eyes on the Deputy Headmistress standing in front of the High Table.  Minerva paused to collect herself.

"First of all, welcome back to a new school year.  It is always good to see old—and new—faces at the start of each September."  She tried to not take an unusually deep breath.  "Well, this has been a wonderful feast"—one of the Weasley twins, Fred or George, waved a spoon in the air in agreement—"and I'm sure you are all in need of a good night's sleep to prepare yourselves for the start of classes tomorrow.  Prefects, if you would lead your house's first-years to their common rooms."  She paused to take a breath and continued, "Remember—first classes at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.  Come to breakfast for your time tables."  

The crowd of students began standing up and milling about the house tables.  Hermione (who of course had been made a prefect) jumped up to lead a small group of first-years to the Gryffindor Common Room.

The empty Gryff Common Room.

Minerva turned back around to Severus and wasn't surprised to see anger in his eyes.

"Be reassured," she said quickly, "that I have _not taken leave of my senses.  We're about to have watching eyes in every corner of the school—wherever Harry's gotten to, there'll be company nearby.  And large groups of older students together will be safe, while the first-years are in the charge of their prefects."  She looked at him again._

Still no change.

"That," he pronounced slowly and deliberately, "was one of the most foolhardy and reckless things I have ever seen done at this school."

"We must ensure Potter's safety—"

"At the expense of the safety of the other students?" Severus came to his feet angrily.  "There are more in danger here than that—"

"I wonder if you could keep your personal feelings for that boy in check for just one damn minute!" Minerva said heatedly, causing not a few faculty and nearby-student head-turns.  She lowered her voice.  "Listen: Harry is the target, if anyone.  He's the one in danger—if anyone."

"And just what do you propose we do now?"

"We look for him."

"With the corridors this busy?  You'll be lucky if he turns up by midnight."

"He'll be more likely to come back to the common room now, seeing that everyone has left their dinner and congregated—"

"Didn't he leave to be alone?"

Most of the rest of the faculty had left the table by now, and most of the students had crowded around the large doors.  

"Why do you leave someone?"

Minerva looked at him sharply. "What did you say?"

"I said, why do you leave large groups?"  Minerva relaxed.

"You leave them," Severus continued, "because you have tired of their company.  You leave them to be al—"

"I can see we're accomplishing nothing by arguing here," Minerva said brusquely.  "I think the best course of action right now would be to go search for him."  She eyed Severus beadily.  "Shall we split up?"

He moved around the table to meet her next to the Gryffindor table.  They began walking—very briskly—toward the doors.  

"I'll take the dungeons and lower floors," Severus offered in an undertone once they'd reached the throng of students.

"I'll start in the castle proper and move to the towers," she said.  They headed out into the corridor.

The halls roared with life now as Minerva hurried through the crowd.  The Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs were heading upstairs, so Minerva had plenty of company for most of her search.  Charms classroom: no.  TF classroom: no luck.  On a sudden inspiration Minerva ran to Madame Hooch's quidditch office, but Harry wasn't there, either.  By now she was level with the base of Gryffindor Tower.  It _was_ possible that he'd gone back to bed…

Minerva walked down the hall past her private rooms and ran headlong into Severus, who had been marching up the dark hallway in the opposite direction.

"Severus!"

"Minerva—any luck?"

"No—I thought he might be—"

"—in the common room."  He paused for a moment.  "I came here to report about the same."

She nodded briskly and turned down the corridor to the Fat Lady's portrait.  Severus followed on her heels.

"Fuoco dolce," she snapped at the pink-berobed woman, who sniffed and let them through.  

"So this is the top-secret location," Severus said in her ear, somehow finding time for humor.  She might have been proud of him if it weren't for the circumstances.  As it was Minerva came close to actually rolling her eyes, and would have, save for all the students milling around.  

Who had definitely noticed their head of house enter the room looking like something the cat had dragged in, with the head of Slytherin house close on her heels.  Minerva drew herself up, looked over the heads of those students who were shorter than her.  There.  Just in the center of the room: Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, sitting in a small cluster of armchairs.  Still talking with an air of great secrecy, heads together.  

"Professor?  Can I…do you need…?"  

Minerva looked up to see a seventh-year prefect with a hesitant expression on his face.

"No, McGowan.  Thank you."  She pressed through the crowd toward the Investigatory Council, Severus right behind her.  A virtual wave of silence followed the potions master along his path of travel, high spirits dampened by his sour face—or else by sour memories.  As if sensing their approach, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny looked up, eyes registering surprise at seeing Minerva—and Snape.  

"Professors?" Hermione asked.

"Miss Granger.  I wonder if you would have any information"—she looked around and lowered her voice—"on the whereabouts of Mr. Potter?"

Hermione's eyes widened.  "No."

"He left the Great Hall after dinner, said he was coming up to bed," Ron offered.  He shrugged. "But he's not here."

Severus made an impatient noise behind her.  "Would you have any idea of where he _might have gone?"_

Hermione looked apprehensive. "Have—have you checked the library?"

"Yes."

"Madame—Madame Hooch's office?"

Slight sneer.  "Yes."

"What we're saying, Miss Granger," Minerva cut in, "is that we really have no idea where he is.  And we need to find—"

"Is he in danger?" Ron asked.

"You'd do well not to interrupt, Mr. Weasley—"

"I said, _is he in danger_," Ron interrupted Severus.  His eyes narrowed.  "It's not against the rules or anything to be out this early—"

"Is he alright?" Ginny asked, eyes wide.

"To all our knowledge," said Minerva.  

"I don't know where else he'd be," said Hermione, white-faced.  "You've checked Hagrid's house?"

"Hagrid himself assured me on that point," said Severus.  

"I'm sorry," said Hermione.  "We don't know."

Ginny shivered and sat back further in her armchair, her large brown eyes shadowed over.  Ron looked angry—his response to the helplessness of the situation, Minerva supposed.

"Thank you," said Minerva.  She turned to leave, sweeping past Severus and out the portrait hole.  He followed.  

"Alright—now what do we do?" he asked.  

"We—I suppose we search the upper floors of the castle," said Minerva.  They set off, but together this time.  Thirty minutes of searching all the important places—classrooms, offices—yielded nothing.  The halls had all cleared out by this time, and were dark and silent once more.  Minerva was almost glad Albus had sacked the security trolls after a few weeks; running into a troll in the dead of night was about the last thing Minerva wanted to deal with right now.  The isolated classroom clocks ticked ever closer to curfew time, and still no Potter.  

"Do you know what Potter did the first time he saw me?" Severus asked suddenly.

Minerva started. "Well—no."

"It was his first beginning-of-term feast.  He was sitting at the Gryffindor table.  He looked up at me—he didn't know who I was at the time, of course, but as soon as he saw me, he sort of flinched.  And then he felt his scar, like he'd had a sudden pain."  Minerva looked up in moderate surprise.

"I trust you saw him looking at me tonight," Severus continued in the same tone, and Minerva thought uncomfortably about Harry rubbing his scar outside the carriage…

"He looked at me, and it was with the same sort of expression he had that first night.  Sort of curious, but this time he just sort of shadowed over—and then he turned around."

Minerva had seen this, in fact.

"Did you look back at him?  Make any gestures?"

He _tsk_ed. "Of course not, Minerva.  I made sure to be studying a spot on the Ravenclaw table at the time."

Minerva frowned. "He's bound to look at you differently now," she offered lamely after a few seconds.

"After what?" Severus asked suspiciously, looking at her with a frown.

"After—well, all of last year.  And after he knows you were a—"

Severus stopped short. "He knows—_what?"  _

"Severus: he's known since the middle of last spring."  Albus had pulled her aside quietly after the Pensieve incident.

"So why is he looking at me strangely now?"

"Why did he look at you strangely his first year?" she countered, annoyed. "There's no way of knowing.  Now I suggest we keep looking for him before the night gets any later."

Severus made another _tsking sound, but followed her dutifully.  _

There weren't many places on the top levels of the castle to attract a fifteen year old wizard, and Minerva frankly didn't know where to begin.  The night could hardly have grown darker, dark as it was to begin with, but it seemed the torchlight had been muted here, the torches placed further apart…something.

"Potter—" Severus called out, startling her, and she reached over to clamp a hand on his mouth.

"Let _me_ do any calling," she said, with a severe look at his startled eyes.  "We don't want him running away."

"It's nearly curfew time to begin with," Severus grumbled—softly—as he stepped away from her hand. 

"There's a distinct possibility he's got his Invisibility Cloak with him, and we don't want him to just disappear on us, do we?" she glared at him and continued walking.

"Perhaps we should walk arms-out to sweep the hallway for him?" Severus asked with not just a dash of sarcasm.

They were working their way to the last unscoured hallway on this floor, and Minerva was wearing out her last nerve.

"You know what?" she rounded on Severus, who drew up short in surprise.  "You know what?  Maybe we should.  Maybe we should sweep the hallway.  Maybe we should give him a detention.  Maybe we should expel him!  You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

He gave no verbal response, so she continued on, eyes narrowed, spitting the words out.

"You know what else? Maybe I shouldn't have released dinner!  Maybe I shouldn't have gone to Hogsmeade!  Maybe I should be glad for your company here, glad I have someone to _keep me in line!_  Maybe I should be _grateful to you!  Maybe!  But also, maybe _you_ shouldn't have—"_

Slightest pause.

"Maybe I shouldn't have _what?_" he asked in a voice, so soft, so politely curious, she might almost have believed it if she hadn't known him.

"Maybe…"

"Take your pick," he said, wryly humorous in a way that almost reached his eyes.

_Maybe you shouldn't have joined Voldemort._

"Maybe…you shouldn't have called out for Harry," she finished in a whisper.

"Maybe I shouldn't have," he echoed, just as soft.

"Maybe you shouldn't have snapped at Ron."

"Maybe I shouldn't have."

"Maybe…" she trailed off, whisper fading to silence.  He seemed to understand the meaningless, noiseless statement, nodding imperceptibly as he had to the others.

_Maybe…_it occurred to her that he could have his own list to add to hers.  

"Maybe," he began, so soft she had to strain to hear him, "maybe we…"  
_Yes?_

"…should continue searching, instead of standing here in philosophical discussion," he concluded.

"You're probably right," Minerva said in a normal voice, causing Severus to jump.  She turned swiftly, leaving him to follow in her wake. 

"Um…Professor?"  A small, hesitant but undeniably teenage-male voice said from the shadows to her right.  Minerva jumped, then righted herself to face the shadow.

"Mr. Potter!  What—do you realize how long we've been looking for you?"

He stepped out of the doorway, shoulders squared in such a way that she could tell he was trying very hard _not to square them and coming up unsuccessful._

"Sorry, Professor McGonagall.  I didn't realize how late it was.  It _isn't_ curfew time," he pointed out hopefully.

Severus moved up behind her, and she made a small hand movement.  A "stay quiet" movement.  Minerva was lost for a moment on what to tell him, and came up with the best thing off the top of her head.  A teacher's natural question.

"What are you doing in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office at nine o' clock at night?"

He shifted his weight, looking a little embarrassed.

"Well, I…I heard, you know, a rumor.  On the Hogwarts Express," he added helpfully.  "Someone said Professor Lupin had come back this year."

Minerva sighed, and nodded.  She saw him brighten, and quickly said,

"Unfortunately, you heard wrong, Mr. Potter, and our new Defense teacher is currently in his chambers resting."  She paused.  "I'm sorry" seemed a very clichéd and, in any event, inadequate response.  

"Oh."  Harry's face fell.

Severus had said nothing, and it was probably best to keep things that way.

"In any event," Minerva said, becoming more businesslike, "it's high time you were off to Gryffindor Tower to bed yourself.  It _is_ almost curfew time, remember."  He nodded, and followed them out of the shadows of the doorway and down the hall, a slightly dejected look on his face.

Now the question came of what to tell him.  And when.  

"Mr. Potter…" she trailed off when she noticed Severus make a quick shake of his head.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Potter…if you would come to my office immediately after breakfast tomorrow?  You aren't in trouble," she added quickly, seeing his alarmed expression.  "There are simply some things I would like to discuss with you."

Severus looked satisfied, or at least until his lip curled up in a mocking smile.  

Self-mocking, she hoped.

But it didn't matter.  He _was_ thirty years her junior, of course.

They dropped Harry off at the Fat Lady's corridor and loitered around the end of the hallway to see him safely through.  When Harry was asked the password, he drew an obvious blank, and Minerva called it out to him.

"Fuoco dolce."

He turned around and gave them a scrutinizing look, but then climbed through the portrait hole and disappeared without a backward glance.  

"_That_," Severus said in an offhand manner, "could have gone worse."

"Don't remind me," Minerva groaned, holding her forehead in her hand.  "I suppose we'd better go see if Albus is free yet…"

"I suppose so," said Severus.  

She gave him a scrutinizing look, and they continued down the hallway to the grand staircase.  

* * *


	10. Chapter Nine: The Revenge of Fluffy

**EDITOR'S ERROR** we apologize for the horrendous error in heading this chapter "The Revenge of Fluffy."  It should actually be called "The Revenge of Fluff."

A/N: HAH.  FOOLED you.  Seriously now, I want to see good ol' Fluffy back in the series sometime.  Not likely, eh?  There's always fanficdom…

A/N: If you're the type of person who gets mad when people diss Christianity—even evil, genocidal mean people who will one day become Lord Voldie of the Thousand Devoted Fans—then just skip over a few lines in this chapter.  I don't want your flames or your righteous indignation.  And I don't think I'll be saying anything religious anywhere else in the fic. 

Chapter Nine: 1941

Adriana and Paul spent Saturday's breakfast making eyes at each other—or rather, Paul spent breakfast making eyes at Adriana over a cup of pumpkin juice and Adriana spent breakfast deeply absorbed in the 1492 goblin rebellions.  Minerva spent the breakfast trying _not_ to make eyes at Tom, who (damn him) had positioned himself directly in her line of sight.  Minerva couldn't help but notice that he was quite adept at eating porridge while keeping both eyes fastened straight ahead.

Thankfully, above her head, or Minerva would have been fighting an uphill battle against the Gryff-girl blush.  Still, there was no sense in not looking at him at _all_…

Minerva decided that a healthy compromise was staring at the bowl of a Ravenclaw girl across the table from her.  From this focal point, she could just see Tom's face at the edge of her vision.  And keep her true intentions less than obvious.

Paul kept up a stream of background white noise, most of it about last week's quidditch try-outs, in which he'd secured one of the Gryffindor chaser positions.  Minerva didn't see how she and Adriana could have _forgotten_ the fact, with Paul bringing it up at least once in every conversation.

Not that she wasn't happy for him.  But quidditch just wasn't one of her interests.  There was nothing wrong with not liking the world's favorite sport.  The wizarding world's.  Which was practically her only world.  

Which didn't make not liking quidditch a sin, for goodness' sake. 

Maybe some of her irritation showed on her face, because Paul stopped a long-winded lecture on Gryffindor's prospects against this year's Slytherin team to address her specifically.

"Minerva—hey, Minerva!"  Her head snapped up.  "Somehow I don't think you're reflecting on the advantages of speed in the keeper."

"Er—does the advantage of a McPrewett at chaser work?"

He rolled his eyes.  "Nice try—is there something wrong?"

"What was that about 'not prying'?"

"Surprisingly good comeback," he said easily. "But it's not getting you off the hook."

"I'm fine, Paul."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"You sure you're sure?"

"Godric's sword, Paul, let up," said Adriana, not looking up from her book.  Paul put his arm around her.

"And the modern voice of the Founders Four makes yet another triumphal entry into the conversation," he said.  Adriana _did_ look up from her book at this point, but only long enough to _fwap him atop the head with a spare roll of parchment._

Minerva laughed and turned back to her strategic porridge bowl.

"Is there something on my bowl?"

"Excuse me?" Minerva looked up at a girl across the table from her.  The girl—a Ravenclaw, of course, if she was sitting here—looked to be a year or two younger than Minerva, with a dull tree bark-colored sort of hair and grey eyes.  Big grey eyes.  Minerva dimly recognized her as the owner of the bowl she'd been staring at.

"Is there something wrong with my bowl?  You've been staring at it all morning."

"Sorry—er…sorry."  True Gryffindor brilliance, that.

"Oh—it's OK—I'm just—" the girl had crumpled at Minerva's apology, and now wore the self-conscious look of a person who had tried and failed to look tough.

"No problem," Minerva said, beginning to feel uneasy.

"No, no problem," agreed the girl.  She blinked at Minerva.  "But why _were_ you looking at my bowl?"

"Well—I suppose I was just staring off into space."

"Oh—sorry."

"Like I said, no problem."

The girl flushed pink and began shoveling porridge into her mouth.  Glad to have _that conversation over with, Minerva looked back up at Tom's seat._

And found it empty.

Disappointed, Minerva turned her attention back to her own cold porridge and Paul's continuous quidditch chatter.  She stayed with him through the optimal seeker body build (small, fast) and the importance of upper-body strength to the beater and several barely-masked invitations for Adriana to join the conversation.  By now it was half past nine and the Hall had begun to clear out.

"Hey—"

Minerva looked up, trying not to groan as she saw the porridge-bowl girl trying to get her attention.  The girl was standing up, and from her clear place at the table, she had obviously been gone for a while and come back.

"Yes?" Minerva asked warily.

"Well—" the girl faltered a bit.  "You see, I've been given a message to deliver you."  She paused, as if not sure whether this should be simply a matter of fact or a cause for embarrassment.  Paul lifted an eyebrow at her.

"Tom Riddle says, 'Muggle lit.'"

"Does he, now?" Paul asked, eyes growing angry.  "He's that scrawny Slytherin kid, isn't he?  You tell him there's no need for insults.  You tell him 'Slytherin _trash.'"_

Minerva was confused for a few seconds before he reached over an apparently catatonic Adriana to put a hand on Minerva's shoulder.  

_'Muggle lit.'  He thinks it's an insult._

How very like a Gryffindor, she was tempted to think.

Porridge-girl cast a nervous glance around, tried a weak smile, and fairly fled for the great wooden doors.

Paul patted her shoulder.

"Don't even pay him mind, Minerva.  He's trash, and he's _stupid trash if he's insulting you."_

"Thanks, Paul," said Minerva with what she hoped wasn't as weak a smile as the porridge-bowl girl's.  "That means a lot to me, it really does."

Then she excused herself and hurried to the Muggle lit. section.

* * *

"You're late," said Tom Riddle when she ducked between the bookshelves.

"Sorry—I'd only just received your summons," she said dryly.  He grinned.

"Yeah.  I noticed that girl sitting next to you at breakfast.  Once I'd been in the library a few minutes I saw her come in.  A few surreptitious words in the Obscure Charms aisle and I had a personal messenger."

"She didn't need much convincing."

"I think she likes me." 

Minerva pouted in jest before she could stop herself.  Tom laughed.

"You're prettier, though, don't worry."

"Glad to have a discerning eye around," she shot back, mostly to cover the blush radiating out from her cheeks.  

"Pout at me again.  It was cute."

"Tom—"

"All right!  On to safer territory."  

They were silent for a few moments.

"I wish we had more classes together," said Tom offhandedly, and Minerva laughed.

"What?" he asked, looking annoyed.

"Imagine—imagine a Slytherin saying 'I wish we had more classes with the Gryffindors'," she got out.  "Or vice-versa.  I _was thinking about the same thing."  Tom relaxed slightly and smiled again.  So he _did_ know she wasn't still mad at him._

"Yes, it's pretty upside-down," he agreed.  His eyes shifted toward the end of the aisle, out toward the open space at the front of the library.  "You know, I happened to notice a nice, out-of-the-way table out there when I came in.  Do you want to sit?"

"Sounds good."

Minerva cast a surreptitious glance around the library as they sat—it was mostly deserted, just a few people working on homework scattered among the tables.  Nobody was near the table they had selected.

"What do you bet—any Gryffindors in the bunch?" Tom indicated the rest of the students with a chin-nod.

Minerva grinned wickedly.  "I'd know them—and no."

"Pity," said Tom unconvincingly.  "And how shocking, too."

Ah.  Here was her opening.  Minerva shifted her weight slightly, then said what was on her mind.

"You know, it's fun for a while, but I don't understand why you stick with this feud," she said.  "And don't tell me you're just trying to be a good little Slytherin, because that won't cut it."

"Why not?"

"Because—beside the fact that you don't _do things in order to be a good little boy"—here he grinned innocently, which she ignored—"—with you it's __personal," she said. "Just the way you talk about it."  She paused.  "Yet you still like me."_

"Is that a challenging tone I hear?"

"Come now—I'm simply curious," she said.

He frowned.  "You're mocking me."

"I'm imitating you."

"Why?"

"I asked you first."

"What did you ask again?"

"Why the Gryff-Slyth feud is personal for you."

"And why I still like you."  He paused.  "OK—really long lecture on the way.  Run if you will."

"I'm game," she said, grinning.

"OK—it's really less of a Gryffindor-Slytherin feud for me as a clash of worldviews—really," he added, seeing her skeptical eyebrow.  "Come now, Minerva—I'm not _that shallow.  You have to know that.  And you have to admit that simply hating someone because of the school _house_ they're in is about the most shallow thing one can do."_

Minerva nodded, surprised and pleased.

Tom continued.  "You've been reading my copy of _Hogwarts: A History_, so you know how the houses started.  Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw were the school founders, and they sorted the students among themselves according to attributes—according to _mental attributes.  Gryffindor took the brave.  Hufflepuff took the hard workers.  Ravenclaw took the clever.  And Slytherin took the cunning._

"That's what I like about the Founders Four—they definitely knew what they were doing.  It would have been easy for them to sort by other factors—subject interest, talents, even magical ability level—but they didn't.  They sorted by _personality_.  And it's personality that sets the four houses apart, and what makes each unique."  He stopped to take a breath.

"Go on," said Minerva, grinning.  "I'm liking what I'm hearing.  And it sounds like you've wanted to say it for a while."

"I've been sorting it out in my head," he replied, then laughed at the unintended pun.  Minerva smiled.  

"Anyway—back to the four houses.  The Founders Four made a wise choice, because it was the _personalities_ of their students that would determine the future of the school more than anything else.  It was their attitudes, their ideas, their unique take on the world that things would boil down to in the end.  That being said, there are some divisions you can notice almost immediately in this school."  He turned around to indicate the rest of the library, which was still mostly empty with scattered groups and isolated students.  

"Do you usually see a Gryffindor doing extra research?" he prompted.

"Er—"

"Except for you—you _are_ an exception."  

"Er—no, then."

"Exactly.  It's the way the personality types are broken up.  Here's my theory—" he turned back to her and leaned forward, as if he were drawing her into a conspiracy of some sort.  Minerva leaned forward as well.

"Here's my theory—it's what the Founders Four placed the most value on.  Gryffindor and Hufflepuff: bravery, courage, foolhardiness if I may say it"—she didn't contradict him, so he continued—"loyalty, hard work, steadfastness—they were chiefly concerned with the _heart_.  Now Ravenclaw, and my own Founder Slytherin—cleverness, scholarship, ambition, cunning, wit—they were chiefly concerned with the _mind_."  He sat back, looking satisfied.  "That's my theory."

Minerva sat up too.  "That's _it_?"

He blinked.  "'That's _it?'  Yes, that's it.  Isn't that __enough?"_

"Well, it certainly makes sense—I'm surprised I'd never caught that before," she allowed.  "But I don't see why you make such a big _deal_ about it."

"Such a big _deal_ about it?  It's two entirely different mindsets!  No wonder Godric and Salazar got into such a row!  And it's carried through to today, with noble exceptions," he said, nodding magnanimously to her.  "Imagine a world of Hufflepuffs.  They're followers: it's what their House praises as _good_.  It's good to be loyal to someone, to work hard no matter what…have you ever read the Bible?"

"_Yes,_" she said, quite miffed.  Who _hadn't read at least some of the Bible?  _

"All right then.  The ideal Hufflepuff is like the ideal Christian: hard-working, loving, fair, "righteous", loyal to God, and utterly robotic and unquestioning."

"That's a pretty broad statement—and unfair."

"Is it?  Are Christians supposed to question God?"

"Er—no…"

"There," he said, nodding in a self-satisfied sort of way.  "Now Gryffindor—"

"Oh, goodness," Minerva said with mock-dread, burying her head in her arms.  "I suppose we're Satanists then?"

He laughed, gratifying her.  "No.  No religious analogies this time, I promise.  By the way, _are you Christian?"_

She shrugged.  "I used to—well—no," she said, realizing he'd be much closer to figuring out she was Muggle-born if she said anything about church.  It wasn't unheard-of for wizards to claim religious affiliation in the traditional Muggle sects, but Minerva had discovered during her time in the wizarding world that very few did—probably a throwback to the days of witch-hunting.  

"Me either," he said.  "I just wanted to see if—well, if I was making you uncomfortable."  Minerva had a feeling he'd been testing her for girlfriend-worthiness, but it didn't bother her that much.  She'd really only gone to church a few times since she was a little girl.  

It suddenly occurred to her to wonder how _he'd had access to a Bible.  Some wizards, sure.  An old pureblood family…_

"Anyway," Tom continued, "Gryffindor: bravery.  I guess this sort of gets back to what I was talking about a few days ago—an unthinking admonition."

"I remember," she said.  She'd lost some sleep over that, and she told him so.

"Good," he said shortly, and she glared at him.  "What I mean," he amended quickly, "is that I'm glad you're thinking about what I said.  Bravery alone is stupidity.  If you've read your history you'll even see what came of Gryffindor's bravery: he perished in battle."  Minerva flinched, remembering.

"He went out against a large foe without proper preparations.  Is _that the kind of bravery your House advocates?  Or is it just the empty, day-to-day admonitions to remember Gryffindor and be courageous.  'What is popular is not always right' or something or other.  Those things you hear every day, so often that they mean little to nothing."_

"Well," Minerva countered, "what moral virtue did _Slytherin stand for, may I ask?"_

 "Oh," said Tom, clutching at an imaginary wound. "You're aiming to kill now, you are.  I realize Slytherin has rather a bad reputation."  He paused for her to grin at the understatement, frowned at her in mock-sternness, and continued.  "But Slytherin sought out students who questioned.  That's what I like about him.  You always hear that Slytherins are rule-breakers, but that's because we're some of the only people who question anything around here.  We like to work things out for ourselves."

"And Ravenclaws?"

"They're cut from the same material, but they're usually tamer about it.  They're usually devoted more to the academic sphere."

"Not as adept at amorality, eh?"

He looked hurt.  "Minerva—"

"Did that hurt you?"

He held the hurt look for a moment, but then let it melt away, to be replaced with a grin.  "Not at all."

"I somehow didn't think it would."

"'Amoralist' is a nice insult as far as it goes.  But you tell me, Minerva: what _is morality?"_

"Well—"

"Isn't it a personal thing?  I mean, unless you're a member of a religion, and then you're bound to your own set of arbitrary rules."

"I don't think you're being quite fair," Minerva said. "I understand your bone-to-pick with arbitrary rules—I myself am tempted to overstay curfew—" he grinned at her, and she continued considerably more encouraged, "—but there are some rules that can't be broken."

"Such as?"

"Such as kindness."

"To whom?"

"Well—everyone, I suppose."  She knew she was faltering, and he knew it too.  _Note to self: never debate philosophy with a Slytherin ever again_.

"How about someone who's just put your best friend in the hospital wing?"

"Er."

"'Er.'  My thoughts exactly."

"But Tom—"

But Minerva was interrupted at this point by a boy bumping into their table.

"Hey—watch it!" said Tom.

"Sorry," grunted the boy, and Minerva recognized him as Rubeus the bicorn kid.  He gave her a grin, which she returned, and continued shuffling toward the bookshelves.  When he turned around, she noticed the end of a very nasty-looking scratch poking below the fabric of his robes on his right wrist.  They waited until the boy was out of sight.

"I would sincerely like to know," Tom began softly, once Rubeus was out of earshot, "how he got that scratch.  Do you know him?  I've seen him around, but only last year.  He looks like a sixth-year."

"His name's Rubeus," Minerva replied.  "He's a second-year.  I only met him once, at the beginning of last year.  He'd accidentally wandered into old Knutworth's bicorns, and gotten himself into a bit of a situation."

"He's heading toward the 'magical creatures' section."

"I'd noticed that myself.  And on a related note, it's definitely nice to see someone who knows the library as well as Adriana and me."  She flashed him a grin. "Must be that Slytherin focus on the mind."

"It must be," he said, sounding distracted.  He was still looking in the direction Rubeus had gone.  "Anyway," he said, snapping himself out of his little trance, "I enjoyed talking to you just now."

"So did I," she said, and found she was telling the truth.  Some of it had been the normal things she'd been hearing every day for three years; some of it had been outrageous; some of it had been downright _heretical_ had wizards cared about such things the way Muggles did.  

"It was fun."  She paused.  "Surely you're not leaving just now?"

He laughed. "I actually had meant to talk with you about something totally different just now, but you know—let the winds blow where they may."

"What did you want to talk about?"

"Well," he said, looking more serious, "I think I know a place where we can meet and not have to worry about being seen together.  I mean, we're going to have to keep an eye on—Rubeus, did you say?  We're going to have to keep an eye on this kid to make sure he doesn't try to put two and two together.  If we still care about the secret," he added with raised eyebrows.  Minerva sighed.

"He's in my House—I can probably keep a loose watch on him.  Now where could we meet?"

He grinned again. "It's a secret," he said in a sing-songy voice.  "I'll show you tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes.  Eight o' clock."

"Where?"

"Meet me off the Entrance Hall, to the left of the Great Hall."

"Ah, a secret sojourn by night."

"By moonlight," he added playfully.

"Sounds good.  I'll be there," she said.

"See you then," said Tom as she got up to leave.  "And watch the tall kid when he leaves the library, will you?"

"Done," she said, and flashed him another smile before leaving.  

* * *

Minerva spent the rest of the morning—there wasn't much of it left, actually—finishing a sheet of calculations for Arithmancy.  After lunch, she returned to the library with Adriana, where they alternately scoured the History and Transfiguration shelves.  Adriana had an idea that they could do some joint research on the history of the International Society of Transfigurers, but Minerva was really more interested in the discipline itself and not its history.  Adriana finally got herself a book entitled _Transfiguration: The History of an Art_ and quoted from it liberally while Minerva memorized hand positions from the fourth-year textbook.  She was quite keen to get on to some simple Wandless Transfigurations by the end of the year, so a strong base in the traditional methods was imperative, as Professor Dumbledore had stressed to her.  

"The first major treatise on Transfiguration—at the time called Transformation, Forced Metamorphosis, or Changing Stuff Into Other Stuff depending on the area of the world—was by Stephen the Switcher, a Briton who had traveled to Egypt to study under the great wizards of the age, in 1024."

"'Stephen the Switcher'?" asked Minerva, successfully turning a roll of parchment into a large quill pen.  "I suppose that was because of his area of expertise?"

"I suppose—unless, wait, here it is.  He liked to amuse himself in his free time by performing Switching spells on people—he finally got into a lot of trouble by switching one of his professors' noses with a large snake."

"Oh, goodness," said Minerva, shrinking the feather down to the size of a pinhead.

"Yes.  He was thrown out of the university, but he traveled to Rome, and during his course of studies there he wrote _Transfiguration, not only standardizing the discipline's forms but its name.  Egypt, of course, after this turn of notoriety, wanted him back."_

"Did he go back?" asked Minerva, Engorging the feather to the size of a small cat.

"Yes.  And watch that feather, too, it's starting to tickle my arm."

"Sorry.  Has Dumbledore shown your class the new Mass Transfiguration technique they discovered this summer?"

"No," Adriana said, raising her eyebrows.  "Are you holding out on us now, Minerva?"

Minerva grinned.  "No.  I was just early to class one day, and he showed me.  Very complicated wrist motion, sort of a cross between Position One and Position Five.  He turned a large number of dust motes into leaves."

"Interesting," said Adriana, going back to her book.  "Anyway, around this time Transfigurers' Societies began to form, but the current International Society of Transfigurers wasn't founded until 1500."

"Long time," said Minerva, shrinking her feather down to normal size and turning it a bright electric blue.  

"Long time for what?" said a large red object next to her.  Minerva pushed her horn rim spectacles back in place and the large red object refocused itself into Paul, back in from an early quidditch practice.  

"Hello, Paul," said Adriana without looking up from her book.  "How was practice?"

"Hello, Adriana," said Paul, not looking up from taking off his chasers' gloves. "Practice was fine.  How was the library?"

"Oh, it was fine."

"That's just fine."

"Have you two decided to not speak to each other again?" Minerva asked.  "Because that got really annoying last year, what with all the one-word answers flying around."

"I don't know—have we?" Paul asked, looking up and flashing Adriana a grin that was sure to dazzle.  Had she been looking up.  

"I'm willing to maintain communication if you are," Adriana said.  

"Alright then—we're still talking," said Paul to Minerva.

"Er—that's good."

Paul leaned over to inspect her book.  "Position three, eh?  I never quite got that one."

"Good for color and size changes," Minerva said, with just a trace of self-satisfaction.  Paul grimaced.

"Teacher's pet."

Minerva smirked, and reflected that that really hadn't been as bad an insult as Paul had no doubt intended.  At least, not for her.  

"Quidditch jock."  _That had come from Adriana, who put a warning finger in the air at the precise moment when Paul's mouth opened to deliver a counter-offensive.  Still looking at her book, she said, "_I_ think it's about time for supper.  How about you?"_

"Good idea," said Minerva, still marveling at the timing of the finger.  

"Any books to put away?"

"Yes.  See you in the Great Hall?" Minerva said, getting up to leave.  

"Very well," Adriana said, sounding distracted.  Paul moved to get up, but then hesitated.

"We'll catch you there," said Paul.  Minerva smiled at him, if a bit confusedly, and left for the library door.  As she reached the threshold, she turned around, and saw Adriana and Paul each leant over the table, conversing in low voices.  Well, then.  

She turned to leave.

* * *


	11. Chapter Ten: Was that really ALL Adriana...

A/N: Well, this chapter took a while to get up.  To be sure, I've had it sitting on my hard drive for at least a few weeks.  But here it finally is!  And with no religious commentaries—I think.  

A/N: The plot is moving forward again…it may not seem like it, but it is, trust me.  I'm the author.  You can trust me…I think.  And SEVERUS!  GO AWAY!  WAIT!  YOU _ARE_ AWAY IN THIS CHAPTER!  GO AWAY ANYWAY!  ARRRGGGHHH!!!!

Chapter Ten: 1941

"You're late again," said Tom Riddle in the Entrance Hall that night.  

"Don't you get tired of that?" asked Minerva.

"Of what?"

"Of—telling me I'm late."

"Oh."  He looked momentarily relieved, but then regained his composure.  "No," he replied cheekily.  She tutted.

"So are you going to take me?"

"Eh?"  He was looking distinctly uncomfortable again.

"To this 'secret meeting spot'?" she amended, blushing slightly.  

"Of course," he said, and offered her his arm gallantly.  "Come along, my lady."

She looped her arm through his, fighting the utterly Gryff-girl urge to giggle, and they began walking swiftly toward the main staircase.  They ascended one flight, then two, and now were about midway to the base of the towers.  

"I'm not quite seeing the 'secret' part yet," Minerva said under her breath.  This was the heavily trafficked part of the school and several people were following the conspicuous couple with their eyes.  Minerva unlooped her arm from Tom's.  

"Patience is a virtue," he muttered to her.

"So is promptness," she shot back.

"No it isn't."

"Do you care?"

"We're here," he said abruptly, and steered her off into the fourth floor corridor.  "Just wait," he added, seeing one of her eyebrows rise in skeptical appraisal.  Minerva followed him to a room door at the end of the hallway, where he paused, cast a furtive glance around for onlookers (there were none), and ushered her inside with an air of great hurry.

"Is it as secret as all that?"

He closed the door and locked it again, then looked up at her.

"Yes."

Minerva looked around this new room.  It seemed to be a classroom, or to have been a classroom at some point, but it had obviously fallen into disrepair.  Now it looked to be a repository for broken desks and chairs.  A cracked and dirty mirror was fastened against one wall.  On the whole, Minerva could see nothing very special about the place.

Tom let go her arm and set out for the mirror now, wearing a look that was halfway between a smirk and genuine pride.  Upon reaching the mirror, he turned back to Minerva and grinned self-consciously.  

"Well—this is it."

"This?" she asked, trying not to sound disappointed as she took in the ramshackle room.  Tom just grinned wider.

"Come here."

Intrigued, Minerva obeyed, walking up to stand beside him.  He whirled back around to face the mirror.

"_Muerte muere,_" he intoned solemnly.

Nothing moved, as Minerva had half expected would happen, but the mirror did seem to shimmer; and then all of a sudden it became perfectly clear.  Minerva could see herself and Tom Riddle reflected on its surface, and she blinked.  Though she and Tom had been together for a few weeks now, this was the first time she'd actually seen a picture of both of them together.  Side by side.  She gazed on, the picture cozy yet somehow surreal.  Him so tall, so lean and dark, even with fair white skin.  And her: average height, hair in a half-collapsed bon, eyes hidden behind a massive pair of spectacles.  Lips below them thin and white.  The Tom-reflection opened his mouth.

"Er…"

She looked back at Tom.

"If you want to go on," he said, "Just step through."

"_What?_"

"Step through the mirror."  He grinned mischievously. "Like this."  He suddenly grabbed her by the arm and pulled her bodily into the glass.

_Through_ the glass.  Minerva gasped; the material of the reflective surface felt like liquid on her bare skin.  They fell out into a dark space on the far side.  Solid ground.  Minerva clung to Tom's robes until she determined that she was in one piece, and then let go.  She stepped back and raised her head, looking into the darkness.  

The darkness.  Was there such a thing as different, not colors, no, but _densities of darkness?  The darkness of a house during a thunderstorm: heavy with dread and anticipation. But this…though it was pitch black, it was a __free sort of pitch black.  She had the feeling that they were in a very large enclosed space—like a cavern, though what a cavern was doing in a castle she didn't know.  Then again, Hogwarts had a large number of odd nooks and crannies that probably didn't belong in a castle.  No echoes.  None at all.  But then that was magic for you.  Still, this was…a __light darkness.  If that wasn't too much of an oxymoron.  She shook her head._

"Amazing, huh?" Tom moved up close to her and took her arm.  "Come on—it's a tunnel."  He tugged at her robes, and she followed him—all the while keeping a firm grip on his wrist lest she lose him to the darkness.  

"Where are we going?" she asked him.

"To a place I found last year," he said.  "It's not far."

'Not far' was a subjective appraisal.  Minerva had developed a slight blister on one heel by the time Tom halted again.  She tried to estimate the distance they'd walked, but found her sense of proportion all out of whack in the formless black.  

"Here it gets tricky," said Tom.

"What does 'tricky' mean?"

"Well—'tricky' means finding a big hole in the ground and climbing down in the pitch darkness with only your wand light to guide you."

"Er."

"It's only about sixty feet," he offered.

"Er…Tom, do any teachers know about this place?"

She could almost see him grin in the pitch blackness. "Nope."

"So what happens if we get hurt?"

"Well…we get hurt, I suppose."

"And this doesn't _bother_ you?"

"I won't get hurt.  And neither will you; you can handle it."

"And this is the 'secret place,' I assume, whatever's on the other end of the tunnel?"

"Yes."

"Tom—you know this is an expulsion-worthy offence."

She could have sworn she saw a gleam of white toothy grin before he answered this time. "Oh, yes, Minerva—I know."

"I suppose you're fulfilling Slytherin's expectation of 'questioning the rules'?"

"I guess you could look at it that way.  Now, are you coming?"  She felt him take her hand in the darkness.

Looking back, Minerva could never quite say _why she went with him.  It was pretty stupid, and, as she'd pointed out, likely to get them expelled if anyone should ever find out.  At the time, though, it seemed like less of a serious lapse in judgment and more of a great adventure, a grand exploration of the underbelly of the castle, or a dabbling in the art of rule-questioning.  There was almost a moral obligation to explore this side of the Hogwarts life, now she'd caught a glimpse of it.  In any event, she soon found herself at the base of the tunnel, blinking in the bright moonlight that was spilling in…somewhere._

There.  She located the source as a small window carved into the rock wall of the room they now stood in.  

"Welcome to my humble…er…hideout," said Tom, waving a hand grandiosely around the enclosed space.  It was actually small, Minerva noted, about the size of the living room in a small country house she'd once lived in.  To her amazement, there were two couches and a low table sitting back from the tunnel, closer to the wall with the window.  The window had no glass and was open to the air.  Minerva felt a faint breeze coming in, blown across the lake, which lent intricate watery shadows to the thick window sill.

"How far above the water are we?" Minerva asked, and wondered why of all things she had asked him _this.  Why not "where are we" or "how did you find this place" or "who put the furniture here in the first place"?  _

Tom smiled, and she could see him do it this time.  "You can look if you want—the sill's wide enough to hold a person.  We're inside the cliff rock, about thirty feet above the water line.  We're almost directly below the Great Hall, too, in case you were wondering."

She nodded, fascinated, as she climbed into the window sill.  It was indeed about four feet deep, and she reached the end—a precarious hole—quickly.  She leaned over the edge, feeling a breeze on her cheeks, and looked down into the inky black water.

"Careful there," Tom cautioned.  "We _are_ here without anyone knowing."

"Who made this place?" asked Minerva, still leaned over the edge.  

"Not sure," said Tom.  "The tunnel continues past this room; I've followed it all the way to the outskirts of Hogsmeade.  No one else knows about it, not even the caretaker.  It looks like it might have been here since the time of the Founders."  

Minerva leaned back in the window hole and came to sit next to Tom on one of the couches.  

"_I _brought in the furniture," he added with a touch of pride.

"This is amazing," she murmured.

"Thank you," he said.

* * *

Tom let them use a wand light in the tunnel above the secret room while they left.

"I know this passage by heart," he'd said with more than a hint of shrugging pride.  "But it'll probably take you a few weeks or so."  Minerva wondered how often he was counting on them coming here.

They had stayed in the little room almost until curfew time, so there weren't any straying eyes to dodge in the halls on the way back.

"Tomorrow same time?" asked Tom.

"Er…fine.  Meet you at the mirror?"

Tom laughed. "That's going to be our catchphrase; I can see it now.  Tom and Minerva: 'meet you at the mirror.'"

"It will be good material for your career in stand-up comedy."

He frowned.

"—which is apparently beginning now."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me to keep my day job, Minerva.  But here's this: I challenge _you to find a joke that's funny enough to make me laugh."_

Minerva blinked.

"Goodnight," he called and disappeared in the shadows down to the Slytherin dungeons.  Minerva's head was considerably airy by the time she arrived at the Fat Lady's portrait and tossed out an "arête" and climbed inside.  A joke.  A joke.  She had to make him laugh, and hard, and she wouldn't laugh at his of course.  But of course she would, just not at first.  A joke.

"Nice of you to drop in, Minerva."

She had to stifle a scream, at which she gave herself a mental forty lashes.  In the low firelight she made out two shapes on the large, plush couch before the fireplace—and one of them was cradling a large, open book.

"Adriana," Minerva breathed, and quickly darted her eyes around for eavesdroppers.  "Adriana, if you're found here…"

"After curfew, yes, I know," said Adriana idly, flipping a page.

"You'll be given a week's worth of detentions!"

"So will I, actually, for having her," Paul added helpfully, hanging his head backwards over the back of the couch so that he was looking at her upside-down.  "So what's new in your life, Minerva?"

"Er…"  She tried to detach her mind from the startling burst of rule-breaking her friends had indulged in.  "Well, not much really.  Say, is anyone else up?"

"Just one kid.  But he's keeping our secret, don't worry.  Claims to be an old friend of yours."

"Is that so?"  She really had no "old friends" in Gryffindor.  Except for Paul, of course.  Was this just a clever word trick?

"Speaking of rule-breaking, what are _you doing out after curfew?" Paul asked, fixing her with an upside-down piercing look.  _

"It's after curfew?"

"Well after."

"How much?"

"Thirty minutes."

"No!"

"Yes."  Quirky smile.

"I hadn't realized…we were just—"

"Oh, _we_ were just?  Who is this 'we'?"

"Er…" 

"No one in particular" was pretty much out of the question, as were "no one" and "Tom Riddle from Slytherin."  But wait…

"Tom Riddle," said Minerva breezily, and watched with amusement as Paul's eyebrows shot downwards in his upside-down face.  Then his face cleared and his eyes narrowed.

"Very funny, Minerva.  Now who is it really?"

Minerva laughed.  "Tom Riddle from Slytherin, silly!  Don't you believe me?"

"No."

"Good."

Adriana shifted her weight on the couch, leaning herself, whether advertently or no, closer to Paul.  

"Well, I suppose we can forgive your little slip in discipline," Paul said.

"I suppose _I_ can forgive yours.  By the way, who's the kid who's keeping your secret?"

"Second-year named Rubeus."  _I should have known.  Bicorn Kid._  "You really an old friend of his?"

"In a manner of speaking."  Minerva shifted her weight.  "Look, I'm kind of, er, tired.  Will you guys be OK down here alone?"

"OK?"  Paul's eyes became shifty.  "Oh, I'm sure we can find…things to do."

"Now, now, dear," said Adriana, laying a hand on Paul's shoulder.  But Minerva could see the firelight reflected off her smiling lips even in profile.  She raised her voice.  "And Minerva, would you please go tell Rubeus to stop watching us from the stairs?"

"I wasn' watchin' you," called a low voice from the general direction of the stairway.  "I was…er…restin'."

Minerva smiled.  "I think it's time for…_most_…of Gryffindor House to be in bed," she said, and started in that general direction.  

"I think it's time for _all_," she heard Paul say as she ducked into the stairwell, and listened for the accompanying _"ouch!"_ as Adriana meted out the appropriate punishment.

It never came.

"Well, Rubeus," Minerva began in a whisper, trying to listen into the silence from the common room despite herself, "I guess we should…you know…get to our dormitories."

"Er—yeah."

"Can you find yours in the dark?"

"Yeah.  An' by th' way—"

Minerva turned back toward him.

"Don' worry about you an' Tom.  I won't tell no one."

Minerva blinked and blushed in the darkness.

"Er…thank you, Rubeus."

"Sure thing," he said.  "All these rules about who you can and can't like.  Codswallop."

She laughed, bid him goodnight, and slipped into the fourth-year girls' dormitory.  

The air fell silent as Minerva slipped into her bed.  Silent, but charged; so unlike the cavern's silence.  The darkness tonight was electric with the knowledge of its concealing powers.

Darkness, for Minerva at least, would never be the same.

* * *


	12. Chapter Eleven: Umyeah Basically all th...

A/N: Hmm.  This is shaping into by far the longest fanfic I've ever written.  Not quite the longest story: I'm working on one that's 160 or so typed pages.  I'm going to try to get it published when I'm done.  Yay!  Off on a tangent again.  Anyway, enjoy our first peek back into the real-time '95 plot for a good while.

A/N: Severus!  I can yell at you now!  I hate you!  Stop asking her questions that are so incredibly pertinent to the plot and her own personal guilt and feelings surrounding her boyfriend's murder of—OK.  Calming down.  

Chapter Eleven: 1995

"How could you leave me?"  He pauses, whirls around in his pacing, and leans down to look into her eys.  Mere shadows, large round shadows over white marble, facing hers.  He whispers:

"I gave myself to you."

She finds her voice.

"Tom, you know I—"

"Then why do you hate me now?"

Harsh laugh.  "What kind of stupid question is _that_?" she asks, vaguely surprised at her own daring.

"_Are_ there any stupid questions?  Come now…I'm simply curious…"

_You're not real, _she thinks at him.  _You're a dream._

He takes no notice.  Instead, he giggles.

_Giggles._  Tom Riddle.

"It's a good thing Granger discovered the basilisk, hmm?  Who knows _what could have happened?"_

The child wakes violently, a silent scream rippling through the room.  As if she can push the apparition away by force of mind.

* * *

By happenstance, this year's Gryffindor and Hufflepuff first-years had Transfiguration second class in the morning, right after an hour of Potions.  Right on the first day of classes.  Minerva had to resist the urge to run damage control for Severus' traumatic class.  She'd never done it before; then again she'd never seen a first-year class immediately after their welcome-to-Hogwarts Potions class, either.  

Well, best not to baby them—they'd have to get used to Snape.  

She went through the usual introductory speech and demonstration—this year, just to shake things up, she turned a _student's _ desk into a pig.  After an improvised Animagus transformation, she noticed that many of the students' smiles had begun to falter.  Several were looking overwhelmed.  She supposed that so much magic—and so advanced—so soon _would_ be overwhelming.  On to notes, then.

It occurred to Minerva that this lesson and the hurried introduction before the Sorting were all that these students had seen of her.  

She must seem quite frightening.  Then again, they'd just had Severus.

_Severus._  He'd been there for the meeting with Harry, of course, which had been moved to Albus' office.  So Harry knew about the blackouts, and hopefully he would behave himself accordingly.  Severus had been at the meeting, but he'd said nothing, merely standing off to the side as Albus and Minerva talked to Harry.  

Minerva shook her head to clear it of wayward thoughts.  Back to the lesson.

This year's new Hufflepuffs proved brighter than usual, and a record eleven of them had produced satisfactory needles by the end of the lesson.  The Gryffindors didn't fare very well, only three of them producing any change in their match sticks at all.  She assured them that the first lesson was hardly indicative of their magical abilities—at which the Gryffindors had perked up considerably and the Hufflepuffs had begun looking nervous again—and assigned them plenty of practice and a chapter of reading before next class.  

Now for a lovely meal sitting between Albus and Severus.

Minerva seriously considered skipping lunch and spending the time in her office preparing for the afternoon Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth-year lesson.  One of the nice things about her job: she could do just that and not be suspected. 

Of whatever.  What would she be suspected of?

Avoiding Severus.  Well, Severus would assume she was trying to avoid him even if she was in the hospital wing with a broken leg.  On to lunch, then.

Severus seemed to be in a merciful mood, or else he felt he was punishing her.  Minerva decided, upon logical reflection, to scratch "merciful" from the list of possibilities.  Severus wolfed down his lunch in around seven minutes and strode out of the hall, robes blowing smartly (and students flinching slightly) in his wake.  

And no, she did _not_ need the silent treatment to amplify her understanding of his anger from last night.

Minerva left soon after Severus, excusing herself to a particularly twinkling nod from Dumbledore.  Now she really _would_ work on the lesson, which of course had been planned out weeks ago.  She strode across the Entrance Hall, feeling a brief pang of…worry, grief, _something,_ as she strode past the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and remembered finding Harry last night.

_Speak of the devil_, Minerva thought, seeing Ginny Weasley emerge from the stairway, flaming hair and big brown eyes bright.  She craned her neck to look for the others behind Ginny, but they never came.  Ginny Weasley was alone.

"Don't let them ignore you, Miss Weasley," said Minerva in passing, and continued on to the stairs, surprised at herself.  She _never_ inserted herself into student affairs.  Then again, she hadn't remembered the cast of characters from her _own schooldays for quite some time.  Loneliness was a terrible thing…_

As it turned out, the lesson would have to wait.

"Mudblood!"

"What?"

A fizzling sound suspiciously like wand-generated sparks.

Mienrva paused in the doorway to the fourth-floor corridor, taking time to sigh.  _First day back._

"Ouch!"

She snapped back to attention.  _That_ hadn't sounded good.

"Ow—stop—"

"And WHAT is going on here?"  

Three frightened pairs of eyes turned toward her, one with a nasty-looking burn above one eye.  More serious than she'd thought.

"Need I remind you," she thundered down at the first-years (_first-years), "that fighting is strictly against Hogwarts school rules?"  The Gryffindor victim ws about halfway between relief and apprehension (perhaps compounded by his first TF class); another Gryffindor, a girl, was standing a few feet away and had clearly been a spectator (no wand out); the offending Slytherin boy, however, towering and hulking even at eleven, met her gaze with defiance._

Some situations called for mercy.  And some called for a definite nipping-in-the-bud action.

"What happened?" she said, addressing the Gryffindor girl.  

"Well—he sort of accidentally stepped on his foot, so _he"—she indicated the Slytherin boy—"started shooting sparkly things out of his wand at him!"  Minerva sighed again._

"Hospital wing, Mr. Peeples.  On to lunch, Miss Swann.  And _you_, Mr. Neale"—she fetched hold of the boy's arm—"will be coming with me to discuss this matter with your Head of House."  

They each set out for their respective destinations, Minerva beginning to feel apprehensive.  Sure, she'd _said_ "nip it in the bud," but to send him off to Snape so soon…

She shook her head.  Where along the line had_ she_ bought into the students' myth of Snape as inhuman torturer?  

"What'cha shakin' for?"

"What?" she snapped.

"What'cha shakin' yer head for?"

Minerva considered.  "My name, Mr. Neale, is Professor McGonagall, and I would prefer if you use it when addressing me."  She gave him a severe look, which _finally left him looking somewhat cowed.  They left the stairs on the dungeon level and turned down the dark corridors to the lower levels of the castle._

"Why's there water in th' floor?"

"What?" snapped Minerva.

""The water in th' floor.  Hain't no place for it to come from."

"There's an unruly ghost in this section of the castle.  Doubtless she's up to some mischief."  Minerva paused and considered how that had sounded, even as she hurried the boy onward.

"Ghost?  Wicked.  Hain't seen more'n five of 'em in my life.  Say, you the Head o' Gryffindor?"  She gave him a sharp look, still mulling over her treatment of Myrtle.  "Perfesser McGonagall," he amended.

She gave a curt nod and hurried them past Moaning Myrtle's lavatory.

"Say, what's this Perfesser Snape like?"

"You'll soon know."

"'E looked kinder sour-like last night."

"He often does."

"Say how much trouble'm I in fer fightn' with that mudblood?"

Minerva tightened her grip on his arm.  "That word is unacceptable at Hogwarts, despite how you might speak elsewhere."

"Why?"

Minerva was far enough ahead of the boy that he couldn't see her face, so she rolled her eyes.  _All right, Tom, I suppose this is the "questioning personality" you mentioned. _

"That term is obscene, rude, and offensive."

"Oh."

Just "oh."  Minerva looked backward questioningly.

"Well, I wish I'd a known that," he said, looking quite regretful.  "I wouldn't've said it.  I'm sorry."

Minerva considered: unless the boy was really a fine actor, he had honestly had no idea how offensive the term he'd used was.  And she was taking him to Snape for using it.

But, again, he'd have to find out about Snape sooner or later.

"So…" the boy was obviously feeling uncomfortable.  "That ghost you mentioned.  What's his name?"

"_Her_ name is Myrtle.  I wouldn't suggest…trying to meet her.  She's a bit over-sensitive."

"Do you know her?"

Minerva turned the corner and began marching them toward Severus' office.

"D'you know her, Professor McGonagall?"

She stopped them outside his office and rapped on his door in a businesslike manner.

"Have I made you angry?"

"Obviously, if she's brought you to me," came a wryly soft voice from the shadowy corridor beyond the office.  Minerva gasped, started, and quickly regained her composure. 

"We've had a discipline problem, Severus: fighting.  Use of offensive language.  I think you and Mr. Neale should have a talk."

He moved into the light and raised an eyebrow at her.  "Indeed.  I believe that would be a good idea."  He paused to glower at Neale before unlocking and opening his office door.  

With the miscreant…safely in Severus' office, Minerva turned to leave.

"Oh, by the way, Minerva," Severus said in the lazy voice he used whenever he wanted an answer quite badly, "_did you know Moaning Myrtle?"_

"No," Minerva said curtly, and began walking away.

"Did you know Tom Riddle?"

"_What?_"

She whirled around and saw Severus taken slightly aback.

"They are fair questions, Professor, as you lived through the events surrounding…much of their fame."

"I did not," she said a bit too forcefully.  He held up a hand as if in self-defense and swept back inside his office.

Dear God.  He hadn't looked too convinced.  Minerva hurried back upstairs as fast as her old lungs would take her—fairly sprinting past Myrtle's bathroom for fear of hearing noises from within it.

She cringed at the silence.

* * *


End file.
